The case of the Rubber Ring
by CorvidCoccinelle
Summary: Sherlock and John go on the case if a missing person. It seems straight forward enough but they are soon to realise that it's not easy to deduce some of the things people get up to behind closed doors. Finished. Sequel to 'Do not' Prequel to 'Scarlet Star
1. Chapter 1

Three weeks later my phone rings and it's Mycroft.

"John! Busy tomorrow at about eight?"

"No, we're not busy." There's a slight pause and I think, right, he wasn't asking about both of us. Right.

"Could I possibly impose upon you at home? I can arrange the food?" his voice is smooth and cultured. I imagine what Sherlock will say, how high his eyebrows can go into his hairline? But I want to know why Mycroft is inviting himself to our flat.

"Yeah, yeah eight will be fine. Erm. Are we dressing for dinner?" I have no idea how these public school boys do things. Mycroft laughs, genuinely amused.

"No, no John just come as you are."

"Thanks," I say then realise it's my flat he's coming to. He laughs again.

"Tomorrow then. I shall look forward to it." And he's gone. Leaving me with two questions. One, can I get this place even vaguely tidy by tomorrow night and two, how the hell am I going to tell Sherlock?

The man in question bursts through the door carrying armfuls of damp, wet wood. We don't have an open fire and we don't have pet earwigs, as far as I know.

"What's that?" I ask, my arms folded across my chest. Sherlock doesn't answer, he grabs a knife from the kitchen drawer and scrapes something from the wood into his hand and the he puts the knife back in the drawer. Ugh. It's wonder we haven't caught something yet.

Surreptitiously I removed the knife, wash it and put it back. Sherlock hasn't noticed he's busy dropping some chemicals onto the shavings on his hands.

"Ow! Fuck!" he swears violently, something he never usually does, and drops the pieces on the varnished surface of the table where we watch them smoulder through the veneer. I roll my eyes. I'll kill him one day.

"Sorry, what did you say darling?" he is all big grin now, coming towards me around the table. I back off slightly, he's started calling me darling recently. He's decided it's what couples do. Apparently. Lovely.

"Well, my initial question was what are the dirty, great lumps of wood you've just dragged in but now it's pretty much superseded by what the fuck have you just done to Mrs. Hudson's table?" I raise my eyebrows and my mouth is a thin line. He looks at the table as though he didn't know it was there. He twists his mouth at the corner, thinking.

"Not good?" he asks looking at me through his lashes. I sigh.

"No Sherlock. Not good. Especially when Mrs. Hudson comes up here." He spins in the kitchen, his coat fans out behind him. He grabs a rather large bell jar which holds some human leftover which I've not been too inclined to investigate and puts it on the burnt spot, like it's a flower display. I shake my head.

"No?" he says frowning.

"No." I shake my head. He shrugs and takes off his scarf and coat.

"Maybe I can put something else on there and cover it up?" he suggests. It isn't until I see his expression that I realise he means me. I do a quick calculation, post orgasm Sherlock is less likely to break something when I tell him Mycroft's coming to dinner. I nod slowly.

"Sounds like a plan." I say as I walk towards him. His eyebrows rise, he didn't expect that. Good. I like surprising Sherlock Holmes.

Rather than letting him push me back onto the table I grab his jacket lapels and lean him back. His hair falls back and he grins. I stop the grin with a kiss, unbuttoning the jacket and forcing it back over his arms, effectively pinning his arms out of the way. It's something I learnt in the army, an effective restraint when someone is struggling. Sherlock's eyes go wide and I feel how hard he is already against my leg. I'm guessing it's the trick with the jacket.

I've been meaning to try this for ages, ever since that night outside Liverpool St Station when I put my hand over his mouth and he obviously liked it. The jacket is far enough over his elbows that when I push him back he just falls, his long frame prone on the table. He's vulnerable and defenceless. I grin widely.

Pinning his legs right there with my thigh I reach into his jacket pocket and bring out a sachet of lube. Sherlock's been carrying this around for weeks ever since he decided we should try sex outdoors. He thought I didn't know it was there. I chuckle, cock my head on one side.

"Nervous yet darling?" I mimic his new word and unbutton his shirt, exposing the pale line of hair which meanders from his navel into the waistband of his trousers. He moans as I smooth my hands down and down and stop just at the juncture of his skin and the material.

"Ah god John, not fair. Not fair." I laugh now and trickle a finger along the band of his trousers. He bucks upward, trying to gain more friction. I'm hard now, what started as a distraction now has me completely in its thrall. My stomach butterflies at the thought of how he will feel. God.

Slowly, slowly I unbutton his trousers and pull them down, then his shorts which I struggle over his erection because he's bent so far back over the table. I push him backwards so that he is lying with his hips just over the edge of the wood and peel his trousers and shorts off one leg. It's all I need. His cock stands up hard and it's interesting to see how the restraint, the vulnerability has him so turned on. I can see the blood pulse along the length of him.

"John..." It's half groan, half plea. I grin. I put one hand on his chest and hold him there. I can feel his heart pounding wildly and his breath is ragged and he looks so desperate, biting his lip and his eyes rolled back. With my free hand I undo my jeans and wriggle them down. It doesn't look elegant but Sherlock's head comes back up, his hair falls about his cheeks and he watches me from under his brows as I free my own erection and he's sees what he's in for. He moans and puts his head back again. God he is so fucking sexy like this.

I tear the lube sachet with my teeth and trail it over us both. It's the first contact I have made with his cock and he's writhing a bit, trying to get nearer to me. I force his legs wide, putting his feet flat on the table. It's a position I've used to examine patients and I smile briefly thinking that, maybe my medical degree did come in handy.

Three slow thrusts, all the while he pants and sucks in his cheeks, bites his lips and I'm in him. I put my hand back on his chest, effectively holding him where I want him and thrust into him so slowly it nearly kills me. Then I pull out, so far I nearly come right out. He gasps and tries to move but I increase the pressure on his chest. He gets the message.

When I can't cope anymore, when his moaning and twitching and how fucking tight he is just about are driving me mad, I touch his cock. I manage three, maybe four strokes before he's got to that point where I know we can't stop now. Something about his voice, his body movements tell me that we're there. I've had weeks of practise playing the amazing instrument that is this man. So I push him over the edge.

"Sherlock," his head comes up off the table but he's not focussed. "Sherlock."

"Yes, yes, John what?" each word is breathed out of that gorgeous mouth and there is such need, such desire in his voice that I smile.

"Come hard for me darling." He doesn't even notice the word. He comes, Jesus, does he come. His stomach muscles ripple and he squeezes me so tightly that I can almost not move. Three tiny thrusts and I'm with him.

"Jesus! Sherlock Holmes you beautiful fucking man!" every time I think it can't get better and then it does.

After a second where all we can do is drag oxygen into our lungs I help him up from the table and ease the jacket down his arms. Then I rub them, hoping I didn't cut the circulation off too badly. He rests his head against my shoulder, his smooth chest against my jumper. He looks up at me and grins.

"Much better than that awful burn on the table top." I laugh and help him stand up. His legs are wobbly, mine are too and for a moment we prop ourselves against the kitchen work surface and smile at each other.

I bend down and pass him his shorts and trousers.

"We've got a guest to dinner tomorrow night." I mention, casually, lightly. He raises an eyebrow as he hops back into his clothes, grimacing slightly at the sticky lube adhering to his shorts.

"Clara?" he likes Clara, bless him. And she likes him too. It's nice having a friend. I shake my head and he looks confused, who else could be coming over? He's right, we don't often have guests.

"No. Not Clara. It's erm... Sherlock don't be angry... it's Mycroftandhe'llbehereateight." I rush the last words out. His face is impassive.

"I'm not leaving you here alone with him." he menaces.

He sulks for the rest of the evening, perking up when he realises that awful detective show set in Somerset is on. I write my blog, nothing really much to report, while he shouts advice to the well coiffured middle aged man who drives a BMW around solving crimes.

"Sherlock, I'm going to Clara's big garden opening tomorrow, are you coming?" he shakes his head, still absorbed in the TV.

"No, Lestrade's been nagging me to talk to him about a case. I think I'm going to pop down there. After all, he obviously needs help."

"Give my love to Anderson." I smile and get up to make another cup of tea. He laughs.

"Oh he'll love that."

When I get back from Clara's event, gorgeous garden, very posh people drinking champagne, Sherlock is in the shower. The flat is spotless. In fact it takes me a moment to realise that this is actually our flat.

The rugs are both hovered and the wooden floor swept. The mantelpiece has been dusted and the dagger has been removed. Cups and plates which were on the draining board are away and the whole place looks, well nice really.

I go into the bathroom, it's shiny and clean too. Sherlock has his back to me, soapy hands washing his legs, he bends over. For a moment I suppress the urge to grab his arse and then think what the hell and do it anyway. He doesn't jump. He turns and grins at me broadly.

"Afternoon John." He turns now and starts to shampoo his hair.

"What happened out there? In here?" I ask gesturing in wonder to the habitable presentation of our habitat.

"Got a cleaner in. Paid her £70. Flat clean." He is concentrating on rinsing the shampoo off. He has his eyes closed and I take the opportunity to look at how the soapy bubbles slick down his chest and stomach. I look at my watch. It's 7.15pm, no time for fun. Damn.

"You paid for a cleaner? Since when do you care about things being clean?" he looks at me when he's finished wiping the water out of his eyes.

"Towel." He gestures to the rack, snapping his fingers. I pass him the towel. "You're right John, I don't care, but you do. I knew you were already worrying about getting back early to tidy around so I just phoned a cleaner." I think back to four o clock when I told Clara I had to go and she had steered me into talking with a new group of people.

"You told Clara? To not let me come home early?" he nods and kisses me briefly on the cheek as he pushes his wet body past me and makes for his bedroom. I stand in the bathroom mutely. One thing about living with a genius is, when they bother to remember, they can be very thoughtful. I follow him to his room.

"Thanks," I say, "for the cleaner and everything." He is pulling on a t-shirt and its thin cotton sticks to his skin, he never dries properly.

"Come here." I pull him by the knotted towel around his waist and push him back onto the bed. He grins until I put the towel on his head and begin to rub his hair dry, and then he laughs. "Honestly, what would you do without me?" I ask laughing.

"Be damp?" he offers grabbing the towel and pointing to the door. "Go and get changed John, not the black jeans." I frown, what's wrong with the black jeans? They're my best ones. "You look too good in them." He grins widely and licks his lips. So, too good for dinner with Mycroft I think, as I go into my room. This is going to be interesting.

So I'm wearing my second best jeans and the jumpier Sherlock bought me when we went to Harry's. Sherlock's in his usual grey suit, wasn't going to make any effort was he? He comes into the kitchen where I'm pouring some wine and takes a glass. He downs it all and I watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows, it makes me feel suddenly very warm. He grabs the bottle and pours another glass and then leans in for a kiss. It's a slow, lingering kiss and it makes me feel a bit lightheaded. He tastes of the wine and toothpaste and Sherlock Holmes. A heady combination. I moan into his mouth and he pushes me along the kitchen counter with his long body. I missed him today, it seems silly doesn't it? It was only for a few hours but I am so used to being with him and he makes life so much more interesting.

I know we're going to have to stop, that any minute Mycroft might ring the doorbell, but I'm enjoying what I can get right now.

"Charming, charming. Please, don't mind me, just carry on!" It's Mycroft and he's standing in the kitchen. I jump but Sherlock takes his time with the last kiss, licking the sensitive corner of my mouth and then he turns to Mycroft.

"Don't you know how to use a door bell or are you so used to spying you can't ring one?" It's not a nice tone of voice. Mycroft ignores him and smiles at me.

"John, wonderful to see you again. So glad the cheek has healed, and the fingers?" I glance down to my hands, the mangled finger ends are just beginning to be covered by new nail. I nod.

"Much better ... er... thank you." It occurs to me that this was the man who organised the breaking of my cheekbone and the pulling of my fingernails. And I'm thanking him for his concern. It's hard to put the two together.

"Good, good. I'll just get the food." He goes to the window, pulls the curtain back and gestures to someone in the street. There are footsteps on the stairs and two men come into the flat bearing silver slavers. I know I am staring but it's not take away as I know it. I wonder briefly if it's from the Bengali restaurant where he has his office but he's whisking off the lids and there's a smell of steak. He glances over at me, still ignoring Sherlock.

"Love those jeans on you John," he's a bastard. Sherlock growls and it's not a good growl either.

"I thought we'd eat at the table." I mutter, pointlessly, really John where else would you eat? The bathtub? God. But no one notices what an idiot I am, they are too busy. Sherlock glaring at his brother and Mycroft ignoring him.

It is steak in those dishes. The most tender, juiciest steak I think I've ever had. Sherlock sniffs it before he eats his and I try not to roll my eyes. There's moment's silence while we chew and then Sherlock speaks, his mouth is still full.

"So, what do you want? I can't imagine you've gone to all this trouble," he waves his steak knife about dangerously, "just to keep us well fed. Or see John's jeans." He adds malignantly. Mycroft beams like a statue of Buddha.

"To the point as always Sherlock. One day you may learn the pleasure of polite conversation." He rolls his eyes at me as though I am going to commiserate Sherlock's woeful manners with him. I look back at him, my expression blank. It seems to shake him and he sits up a little straighter.

"Very well, I can see my attempts at a nice family get together are wasted on you. Here, Sherlock is my 'point'." He pushes a picture across the table.

I pick it up and it's of a youngish man, maybe my age. He has short black hair and an attractive face. He could be a model or an actor. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, he's laughing, and the picture seems to have been taken on holiday somewhere sunny. Sherlock gives it a cursory glance.

"The Bahamas, probably the south." I look at the picture again, the man is on a wooden decked patio, around him are some plants but I can't see anything that would indicate the location of the photo.

"Silver Buttonwood," Sherlock points to a small shrub in the background. "Endemic to the Bahamas and it's too hot and sunny to be the north islands." He sits back in his chair and chews his steak.

"Amazing." I say, because he is he smiles slightly.

"Yes, very good Sherlock. This man is Simon Eccles. He's an operative of my department and an acquaintance of mine." The way he says acquaintance sounds wrong but I can't just think why.

"And?" Sherlock stretches, like he's bored.

"And he's gone missing." Snaps Mycroft and suddenly the atmosphere changes. Sherlock is reassigning this might be a case, a case Mycroft wants help with and I realise that, whoever this Eccles man is, Mycroft is very attached to him.

"Missing?" I ask, leaning forward in my chair. "Since when?"

"From where?" adds Sherlock. Mycroft smirks; I think he's covering his concern.

"Quite the double act boys." He smiles. Then his face is more serious. "No one's seen him since a fortnight ago on Saturday. I saw him that evening and I tried to call the next day, nothing."

"He's gone on holiday, got sick of you." Sherlock is being deliberately cruel. I put my hand on his knee under the table. He looks at me, an eyebrow raised but he shuts up.

"I'm presuming you've thought of that Mycroft? Checked his family other friends?" Mycroft nods.

"Look, I can't tell you much more but I think something has happened to him."

"Why are you coming to us? You have the power of the government and MI5 and 6 at your disposal Mycroft." Mycroft closes his eyes briefly; it's the most emotion I've ever seen him convey.

"It's out of my remit Sherlock. I can't go near it. Not allowed, verboten, out of bounds." He sighs and sits a little straighter in the chair. "Look, if you don't want to be bothered with it that's fine. Just say so now and stop dragging it out."

"No, we'll look into it for you." I am saying this before I realise and both Sherlock and Mycroft look at me as though the teapot has just spoken. "What? I'll be helping too won't I?" I demand of Sherlock who looks surprised and then nods.

"Thank you John. I can offer you some of the resources at my disposal but I mustn't be seen to be involved in your investigations. Here's a number where you can contact me which will be private." He gives me a card. I wonder what sort of job you have where you have a number which you think isn't bugged. "Well, I can see this meal has been without some of the bonhomie I was hoping to engender so I'll just leave now." He gets up from the table. "enjoy the steak, the desert is a favourite of mine but," he pats his waist, "you know how it is..." and then he puts on his coat and scarf, finishes his wine and is gone.

Sherlock is running his hand over the picture. I can see him thinking.

"Well, that was a turn up for the books." I mumble. He nods. "Are we going to take the case?" I know I just said yes but I'm not the world's only consulting detective am I? He nods again, his eyes grave.

So, you didn't have to wait long did you? I just couldn't NOT write this. So, what did you think? Have these two developed sufficiently? What do you think of the new inkling of a mystery! Send me a review and let me know!

Hey Baker St Irregulars! They're back! Yay! I couldn't leave my darlings: PrincessNala Peachsilk, Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2,Tanya Zsa Zsa, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild for long! You guys are awesome!

Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx


	2. Hacking

I've been reading Simon Eccles' bank statements for most of the afternoon. I feel really guilty, like I'm breaking the law and that's because I am.

This morning Sherlock went out, ostensibly to buy a newspaper but I don't think he knows where the newsagents is or what he sells, and he came back with James and a boy. The boy was about twelve if I can judge age and he was even grimier and thinner than James.

"This is Tiger." James introduces the boy who looks about as fierce as ball of string.

"Roar." Says Tiger in a matter of fact voice, I see Sherlock suppressing a grin.

"Hi Tiger, want some breakfast?" I ask, trying not to be patronising but having no idea how to talk to a person of his age. He nods. I go into the kitchen and put the kettle on and bacon in the frying pan.

"Ok Tiger, there's the laptop. We don't even know what bank he was with, will that be a problem?" The boy shakes his head, logs on to my laptop without being told the password and starts to flicker his fingers over the keys.

James sits down on the sofa and put the television on; he puts his feet up and watches GMTV. Sherlock comes into the kitchen where, it seems, I am preparing breakfast for urchins.

"What's that about?" I cock my head in Tiger's direction; he is still tapping away, occasionally looking over the monitor into space as though he's thinking.

"Hacker." Says Sherlock. "One of the very best. We need to look at Eccles' bank statements and I don't want to ask Mycroft for help. James suggested Tiger." Ok. That James knows these people does not surprise me but that Sherlock does is another matter.

"How's he going to find his password? We don't know anything about Eccles." I turn the bacon.

"I googled him. There was a page for him on Facebook and on LinkedIn. Of course I couldn't get into them but Tiger can, easily." I think about my protected blog. Jesus, anyone could be reading it. There could be hordes of people awaiting the next instalment of my sex life. Bugger.

"I'm in." The bacon is not even cooked. Tiger's voice hasn't changed at all; he's not excited or pleased. Sherlock takes the bacon sandwich to him looks at the screen.

"Beautiful." He says. He reaches into his pocket and frowns. Then he turns to me and snaps his fingers. I gave him a twenty pound note and he raises his eyebrows. I give him another and think I'll have to go to the cash machine again now.

He hands the boys the money and the sandwich and they leave. Sherlock turns to me.

"Right John, get familiar with his accounts. You should be able to piece together his normal week. Don't leave the site for more than ten minutes or it'll log you off. Do you need the bathroom?" I dutifully go and come back to see Sherlock clicking the site to keep it open. I take the laptop and sit down. He puts on his scarf and coat.

"Off to see Lestrade again, he wants me to look at some pictures. I don't know why, I'm not taking the case, it's too obvious."

"What is it?" he sighs and starts to fasten buttons on his grey coat.

"People trafficking, sex slavery I think. From Eastern Europe. It's very boring." I look up from the screen and I know my mouth is open.

"Sherlock that's people's lives you're talking about there! You can't just decide it's boring when some poor girls..."

"And boys." He adds going to the door.

"And boys." I say firmly, "are being treated in this appalling way. You have to help if you can." He looks at me for a long minute. I can almost see his brain working.

"Ok John. I'll look at these pictures and see what I think. But I'm not promising anything." I nod. I know that Sherlock looking at the pictures might be the best chance those kids have.

He kisses me before he goes out the door.

So, like I said, I've been reading Simon Eccles' bank statements for most of the afternoon. I feel really guilty, like I'm breaking the law and that's because I am. I have an A- Z with me and a Yellow Pages. By now I can pretty much tell you Eccles's usual week.

He's a member of The Berkeley Health Club in Knightsbridge, very expensive and elite. He has a monthly payment to them and I know he goes there regularly because he usually buys something in a local supermarket after he's been there. He uses the Tube to get to work but not every day, his Oyster card is on a reasonable top up but not what he'd need for everyday travel. He buys books and CDs from Amazon and shops on EBay. He goes drinking at the weekends except for the first weekend of every month. His card shows debits from the card machine on the same street as The Punchbowl on Mayfair and he's also used his card behind the bar. He shops on Oxford Street, spending about £400 every fortnight. I'm guessing he is a smart dresser.

None of this tells me where he has gone. Or why.

I hoped there'd be some transactions after the date Mycroft said he went missing, some withdrawals somewhere sunny or foreign which would indicate where he was. But nothing, nothing at all.

I'm re reading and checking my list again when Sherlock comes home. He's got two pizza boxes with him and I try not to look surprised because last time he was thoughtful and I was shocked he got annoyed.

"Get anywhere?" he asks taking the laptop and puts it on the table next to the pizza boxes. I shake my head.

"I can follow Eccles around London but I have no idea where he is now." We eat the pizza, mine ham and pineapple, Sherlock's pepperoni, and I tell him all I know about Simon Eccles.

"Why doesn't he go out on the first Saturday of the month?" he asks mouth barely empty. I shrug.

"Maybe he doesn't get paid 'til later?" Mouth full now, he points to the screen where the balance is shown to be more than healthy before that weekend. I nod, he's right. "Maybe he does something else that weekend?" I ask, an idea forming in my head. Sherlock smiles around his pizza and nods encouragingly. I look again at the screen. "But what?"

Sherlock moves the laptop closer to him and flicks us back to the previous two months of statements. On the latter one is a standing order for £300 to a payee identified as just 'RR'. I frown and flick back to the month before this one. There it is again. And again, as far as the bank website will allow us to go. But it stopped two months ago. I look at Sherlock.

"I imagine if we find out who this RR person is we might find out where Simon Eccles was going on those first Saturdays. They might be connected." He crams the last piece of pizza in and grins. On anyone else it would be unattractive but it's Sherlock.

"Perhaps, whoever this RR is, they've done something to Eccles because he stopped paying them?" I suggest.

"Blackmail?" Sherlock suggests and then shakes his head. "I doubt it; £300 isn't much of a blackmail sum." I nod, he's right.

"We could ask Mycroft?" I muse, thinking about Mycroft's 'safe' phone number. Sherlock shakes his head.

"He can't help us beyond the absolute end of the line. We can work this out." He picks up the phone and, looking at the screen, dials a number.

"60- 25- 89, 0977359," he says clearly into the receiver. "Simon Eccles, 07 04 71, SW7 6LH." He pauses as he's put through to a customer services representative. "Hi, I'm just looking at my statements here and I need to amend a Standing Order for £300 to RR? I'm not sure the amount is right and I can't find the original letter they sent to me when I set it up. Could you possibly...? You can give me the address though right? Great. Great. Yes I've got a pen." He scribbles something on the pizza box. "Ok thanks, no that's it thank you. You've been a great help." He beams at the invisible customer services person. Then he disconnects the call.

"They couldn't give me a phone number, which would have been easiest, but they did have a postal address for RR." He taps the paper. "I think we need to pay this person a visit." He finishes his pizza and is eyeing mine when my mobile beeps. I look at it; it's a text, from Lestrade.

'Enjoying the pizza? If it wasn't for me you'd starve you know.' I look at Sherlock.

"Did Lestrade tell you to buy lunch?" he nods, oblivious to why this might not be the romantic gesture it first appeared to be. I sigh.

"What happened with Lestrade's case?" Sherlock eats the last piece of my pizza and throws himself on the sofa.

"He showed me the pictures of eight teenagers, all missing from their homes in the Ukraine. You were right John, they're not all girls. He showed me some blurry CCTV footage which he thinks might show one of the girls in the pictures. I told him where to be looking considering the location of the footage and he said he'd get back to me if anything new comes up."

The next day we take a cab to the address Sherlock got from the bank. The building is a white stucco Georgian house in a very expensive part of London. The front door is a shiny black with a large silver ring door knocker and nothing else to distinguish it. It is flanked by two enormous white pillars which are led to by six white steps. The place is imposing and grand.

"I don't think we should knock until we know what is going on in there." Says Sherlock bending down to tie his shoelace even though he's wearing shoes that don't; tie up. I look at my phone, mainly for cover.

"How are we going to find out? It could be a house, or a business. Hell, it could be anything." He nods and we wander a bit further down the street to a bus stop. We stand there, hoping a bus doesn't come. Luckily for us this is a part of London where Boris Johnson doesn't consider the residents need public transport, so the bus doesn't come and we get to watch the house.

After about an hour when I'm just about to give up a car pulls up outside. The car is a black Bentley, sleek and elegant. The engine hardly makes a noise and the contrast between the car and the white of the pristine building is startling. A man gets out of the back door. He is wearing a sharp black suit and he is carrying the sort of briefcase foreigners expect all Englishman to own. He runs smartly up the steps, we hear his shoes clipping on the stone and he knocks on the door. After a moment it opens and a women steps briefly onto the threshold.

She is tall and slim; her blonde hair is tied up in a complicated way on the top of her head. She's wearing black, I can't see from here exactly what and she kisses the man lightly on his cheek and ushers him inside. The door closes and the car pulls away. Sherlock turns to me.

"John your phone." He snaps his fingers just to make sure I understand his urgency. I sigh and pass it to him and he sprints off down the street.

I see him run up the steps and rap on the door knocker. He waits and raps again. The door opens sharply and someone else answers the door. A small dark haired woman.

"I think your guest dropped his phone." I hear his voice down the street; it is well educated, not out of place in this part of town. The maid takes the phone and closes the door. My phone! A moment later the door is opened again and she hands the phone back to Sherlock. He nods, says something I can't quite hear and comes back down the road to me.

"Well? Any wiser." He nods but he doesn't look certain.

"I'll tell you on the way to lunch."

We order our sausage sandwiches in a greasy cafe in Seven Dials and I wait for Sherlock to finish thinking. His eyes, usually so focussed are miles away and his mouth is pursed. Eventually I can't wait any longer and I interrupt his thoughts.

"So? What is it?" he looks at me like he's just realised I'm here.

"Hmm? Oh yes. Well I couldn't see much, the maid held the door open only slightly like she didn't want to reveal the inside to anyone. It seemed immaculate and expensive and residential as you'd imagine from the outside but there was something of a business about the place. Anyway all I got was this." He shows me my mobile phone. On the screen is a number.

"How did you...?" he smiles and pats my hand. Even at such an innocent gesture I can feel the electricity.

"They have an old Bakelite telephone on a stand in the hall. On the circular centre of the dial was this number. I read it while the maid was looking at your mobile." I am openly impressed.

"Wow. That's amazing. What do we do now?" he copies the number to my contacts and then starts to dial another number.

"We phone Lestrade and see if he can help us with the address and number. Hello? Yes, Sherlock. No, I have no more ideas." He frowns trying to think what normal people say in these circumstances. "Sorry. Yes. Of course. Well, anyway..." he starts brightly, pleased to be off a subject in which he has no interest. I shake my head and he frowns. "I wondered if you could see if you have anything on this address and telephone number for me? Come on, you scratch my back... well, you know what I mean." He waits and then smiles. "Marvellous! Ring on John's number if you find anything, will you? Thanks, great. Bye."

"He's going to ring us if he finds anything. I don't; think he is very happy with me..." I nod and drink my coffee.

"Well, he thinks you should be putting more energy into helping his case I suppose." Sherlock frowns.

"Found anything boys?" it's Mycroft and he's sliding into the booth next to me and opposite Sherlock. He smiles conspiratorially. How the hell did he find us?

"I don't think either of us qualifies for that nomenclature." Sherlock sounds sour. "And you're hardly a maiden aunt or a school nurse." He purses his lips and squints. "Actually..." Mycroft sighs and shifts on the vinyl seat to face me.

"Have you found anything?" I push the piece of paper with the address on it over to him across the Formica table top. He glances down but even I see that he knows the address, he doesn't even read it. He nods.

"Very good, very good. And what do you know about..." he taps a fingernail on the paper. I shake my head.

"Nothing, it's a very expensive house and it seems in a nice area, respectable." For some reason this tickles Mycroft and he giggles behind a hand. I raise my eyebrows but he doesn't elaborate.

"If you know this place and you know who this RR is then why didn't you tell us?" I glance at Sherlock who is sitting back in the booth, long legs out across the bench and watching Mycroft like a hawk.

Mycroft smiles an apologetic smile. It almost looks sincere.

"Unfortunately John I'm not at liberty to help you with this. I have certain... loyalties I have to keep and this would be in breach of most of them." He screws up his face. I sigh; this is such an old tune now.

"So why don't you just go away and let us follow this wild goose chase then Mycroft? This popping up is getting tedious." Sherlock snaps, leaning across the table from his corner. Mycroft sighs, as though Sherlock is my pet dog who has failed to behave again.

"Goodbye John," he puts his hand on my shoulder and gives a little squeeze, Sherlock's eyes narrow.

There is an awkward silence and then my phone rings. Sherlock snatches it up and presses the button to connect the call.

"Hi, right, nothing? Say that again...," he writes on the paper on the table, "Vanessa Brandon? Anything else? Right. Ok. Thanks. Bye."

I look at him expectantly. He frowns and taps the paper in exactly the same way that Mycroft has just done. I don't tell him.

"Vanessa Brandon, no former arrests or charges. Lestrade only has a name. Hmmm." He hands the phone to me. "John, dial the number. I want you to ask for Ms Brandon, tell her you're a friend of Eccles and say he recommended you speak to her."

"What?" I stammer, "me? Why me?" he sighs.

"Because if the maid answers she's already spoken to me and might recognise my voice. We don't know who we're dealing with." I frown but it makes sense. Damn. He leans across to me and I feel his hand under the table running across my leg, I get those tingles again. "I'll make it worth your while." he waggles an eyebrow. I take the phone.

"It better be good Sherlock," I fake menace and he chuckles.

"I'm always good John."

I dial the number, my heart beating like a pneumatic drill, blood loud in my ears.

"Hello?" it is a man's voice.

"Hi," I sound nervous even to myself. "I'm a friend of Simon Eccles and he told me I should get in touch with Miss, er Ms Brandon," I realise too late that I don't know if she's a Miss or a Mrs. and hastily amend what I am saying.

"I see. And how could Ms Brandon help you?" the man's voice is careful, noncommittal.

"Well, Simon said he had a direct debit to her and that she... helped him with some things." God I am an idiot, Sherlock is rolling his eyes.

"You'll have to be vetted." The man is still careful but I think I might have said the right thing, what is it they're doing? Drugs?

"Of course, I thought so I mean obviously you can't have..." I laugh as though I know what I'm saying. The man's voice laughs too.

"Of course. We have a gathering at the weekend but I think I might be able to squeeze you an appointment with Ms Brandon before that if you're eager to attend? Thursday? At 2.30 at the house? Do you have the address?" I nod and then realise he can't see me.

"Yes, yes, that would be wonderful. I'm impatient to get to meet everyone." I have no idea what I am saying.

"Of course. Just some preliminary questions Mr...Erm..." I look about wildly and my eyes alight on the shiny seats of the booth.

"Vinyl. Mr Vinyl." I say closing my eyes at my own utter lack of intelligence. Mr Vinyl? What am I? An 80s pop star? Sherlock runs a hand over his face. The man on the phone chuckles but it's not as though I've been rumbled or even if he thinks it's a stupid, made up name. It's as though he understands what I am saying. What am I saying?

"Mr. Vinyl. Wonderful. I think you'll enjoy Saturday night very much indeed sir. I don't think I'm being improper when I say that Saturday is latex night." My mouth drops open. Sherlock frowns and gestures wildly with his hands.

"Great." I say blankly. "That's just... great. Can't wait."

"Marvellous. Hopefully see you there Mr. Vinyl." And he hangs up. I sit open mouthed staring at Sherlock.

"What?" he hisses, "what? Are they drug barons? Assassins? What?"

"No," I shake my head slowly, the dawning realisation of what I just let myself in for sinking through my stunned brain. "No. I think they're a bondage club." Sherlock's eyes widen and then he laughs. He laughs so loudly that all the other diners stare at us and I clap my hand over his mouth. His eyes are glittering. He just loves this. Jesus.

I hope you like this chapter, I felt there was something missing but it might just have been that I wrote it in two parts bc of work? Let me know what you think. I hope it's ok?

As always I have to thank the Baker St Irregulars! You people make this writing better and better by your comments and enthusiasm! I love you all, really I do: PrincessNala Peachsilk, Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2,Tanya Zsa Zsa, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild! You're all sparkly stars!

Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx


	3. Ms Brandon

I can't help it; every time I have a moment's peace I start worrying. I invaded Afghanistan for god's sake! I've shot people, been shot at, saved and lost lives and now meeting this woman is frightening the life out of me. I'm sitting on the sofa, biting a nail absentmindedly when Sherlock comes back from wherever he's been. He is holding two carrier bags; it looks like books in there.

He takes off his coat and scarf and sets the books out on the table: The guide to bottoming, The guide to Topping, How to be Kinky, SM 101 and The BDSM primer. Great. I look up at him, expecting to see him smirking but his face is serious. He goes into the kitchen and starts to make coffee.

"Look John, I know you're not comfortable with this but I thought you might feel better if you did some research." I am sulking and I know I am. There's something about the whole idea of bondage, or S and M or whatever this is, that upsets my equilibrium. Maybe it's because I just can't square pain with pleasure. I've felt pain and it's not nice. I don't understand how it can be either. I know I'm annoyed with Sherlock for getting me into this and I know that's not rational either. He didn't know what they did, that I'd get invited round there. But still, despite understanding and owning my emotions, I still feel them right? And it doesn't feel nice.

I pick up the first book, SM 101, it's black and white and it has a cover picture of a man's hand gripping a riding crop. Ok. See? This is what I have a problem with; he's going to hit someone with that. How to be Kinky has a picture of a woman in shiny vinyl (I wince as I think back to my terrible faux pas of the day before) and she's sprawled backwards so her high heeled, thigh length boots are most prominent. Surprisingly, despite my recent sexual proclivities, this picture I am more comfortable with. I'm not a complete innocent; I've had girlfriends put on sexy underwear and things but nothing latex, nothing rubber. The Topping book and the bottoming book, I notice the placement of the capitals and wonder if they're anything to do with who's in charge, have almost comical pictures on the front of two cartoon women, one clearly the Top and one the bottom. They are both grinning wildly, looking like they're having the time of their life. I rub an eyebrow. Do I have to go? I almost ask him but he's back with the coffee leafing casually through The BDSM Primer. It has a studded collar and a rose on the cover.

"Right, the principles." He sounds like he's teaching me to drive or play chess. "There's a Top or a Dom, spelt with double m and an e if they're female. Then there's a sub, a submissive or bottom. BDSM is what most of the people who do this sort of thing will call it. It stands for Bondage and Discipline or Domination and Submission or Sadism and Masochism; it's quite handy really because it covers all the most prominent areas of their... interest." God help me he sounds intrigued. He sips his coffee. "Most people into this kind of thing will call what they do 'playing a scene'. It's all very well rehearsed and what's happing on Saturday sounds like a 'Play Party'. They'll probably have rooms set out for various interests." I don't ask and I know I'm still sulking. "And, contrary to popular belief, the actual person who has more real control over a 'scene' is the bottom or submissive because they are _allowing_ the Dom to do those things to them. They give up themselves to the experience. They can always stop it. It's the illusion of control."

"How do you stop it? If you're tied up?" I am interested despite myself. Sherlock grins; he knows his methodical, almost medical delivery of the facts has got me into the subject.

"They have a safe word. Something unlikely to be shouted out in pain or pleasure, like..." his eyes cast about the room. "Cactus." He says and grins.

"And what if you're gagged?" I point to a picture in SM 101 where a woman is wearing some kind of gag with a rubber ball stuffing her mouth open. Sherlock's grin gets wider.

"Well, from what I've researched on the internet..." I look at him in frank horror. What was he doing researching this stuff on the internet? "What? John, I am interested in all facets of human nature. And this was before I met you anyway... when I was experimenting..." I file that comment away for later. I really can't imagine Sherlock in leather and things... well I can. That's the problem. "Anyway, I think they use some kind of object which squeaks or makes a noise when squeezed. Like a dog toy." He grins at me again. "Something you can hold in your hand even if you're tied up." Jesus.

I can't help it anymore. I have to ask.

"Why would anyone want to let someone hit them? And treat them badly." I point to a picture of a man lying on the floor with a woman's shiny stiletto presses painfully into his cheek. Sherlock smirks at me.

"Interesting John that you're not asking me why someone would want to dominate another person." He raises an eyebrow and I splutter into my coffee. I don't even want to think about that. He carries on, "from my research I would say that most submissives enjoy the release of endorphins that go along with pain. You said yourself when you told me about your experiences that you found a place where the pain just became a sensation, not painful, not bad, just a feeling you were experiencing. I believe that's what these people would term 'sub space', a frame of mind where you let go of your attachment to your body through extreme sensation." I look away, out of the window and watch the rain run down the glass. I feel my anger rising.

"That experience wasn't 'fun' Sherlock! I didn't get off on it!" I stand up, the coffee spills and I don't care. I can't believe he just equated my experience in Afghan with these people playing silly games. He touches my hand and I pull it away. I vaguely register his hurt expression and it makes me feel better.

"John, John I wasn't saying that I was merely trying to explain these people to you in a way that you might understand, by using your own experiences. You were forced, coerced against your will. These people aren't. They choose this lifestyle."

"Well they're freaks." I mutter and sit down again. I look at him. His face is serious, his mouth tight.

"That's what Donovan calls me too John." He gets up and goes out of the room. Damn.

I don't go after him. I know I'm in the wrong. I've been judgemental and unfair. I know I've hurt him but I'm still angry because I feel he forced me into this meeting with this woman and I feel scared about going. So I just sit there.

In the end I'm bored, so I pick up a book. How to be Kinky with its sexily dressed woman on the cover seems the least threatening. I flick to the index and start reading. Two and a half hours later I look up and I realise two things. One it's going dark outside and two, Sherlock hasn't come back. I put the book down and decide to look for him. I have to apologise.

I find him lying on his bed, arms folded behind his head, eyes closed. He doesn't open them when I come in but I know he isn't asleep, there's something of an awareness about his posture. I sit on the edge of the bed. He still doesn't move.

"Sherlock," I put my hand out and touch his shin.

"Hmm?" he doesn't open his eyes but at least he's speaking to me.

"Sorry." He is still and I feel the silence between us, uncomfortable and tense. It's horrible. "Sorry I used that word, that I was so judgemental. I just find it hard to understand." He opens his eyes and regards me seriously.

"I don't understand how someone can join the army; kill people they've never met because someone else tells them to. Risk their lives and their friends' lives for a cause that doesn't affect them directly. Have I ever told you that?" My head is reeling. He's never even discussed my decision to join up, never been anything but impressed by the things I've done as a soldier. The shock of this revelation hits me hard. I want to retreat, to say something hurtful and get out of this room but I know that this is pride and ego talking. And both of those voices will only damage the amazing relationship I have with Sherlock. So I tell them to shut up.

"No, you've never told me that." As quick as a flash he's sitting up, folding himself into a cross legged position.

"No I haven't John because I don't think I have the right to judge those people, those decisions." His eyes are bright and intense. I nod slowly and bite my lip.

"You're right. I know you are. I just... reacted. I suppose what happened to me has coloured my judgement. I still don't understand how...well, what's happened to Eccles then if it's not something to do with these people?" Sherlock laughs.

"They're kinky John, not murderers!" Then he stops for a moment and his next question totally confuses me. "Boxing John, what do you think of boxing?" What? I don't understand.

"Well, I'm not into it; I did a little in the army. It's ok."

"I used to box John." Now my eyes are wide. Sherlock? Boxing? I can't see it, can't imagine him risking his brain, his faculties for a sport. "A long time ago but I did. And I hit people, hard. And I let them hit me." I fight to make sense of his argument.

"But... that's different; I mean it's a sport Sherlock..." I struggle with the explanation.

"Yes I didn't even get anything out of it except maybe winning sometimes. These people, they get something out of it."

"Like what?" he grabs my hands and ducks his head so he can look into my eyes.

"Trust John. Imagine the massive amount of trust which must exist in these people's relationships. The breaking of taboos, the sexual release of one's outward personality and the putting on of another, entirely different one, letting go of what society thinks you should be." I think about this. I think about Sherlock, pinned by his jacket on the kitchen table and how it made me feel. The tremendous sense of power when this brilliantly, dazzlingly clever man succumbs to his lust for me. I nod slowly, something is clicking and he sees it.

"They don't bother anyone else, they don't hurt anyone else and in the traditional sense of the word hurt they don't even hurt each other. Yes they push boundaries, yes they do things that other people wouldn't like but not all sex is the same John is it?" and then he kisses me. As the slow fire spreads through me I think about what he has said. I think about people's reactions to our relationship, how it might have been perceived in the not so distant past. How can I judge how another person finds pleasure? I can't, can I?

He holds my head and his tongue caresses my lip. I am struggling to catch my breath now. I hold on to him by his strong shoulders and he puts his arms around me. We fall back on the bed, just kissing, holding. After a minute he pulls back and smiles at me.

"Let's get back to those books. We might learn something." I splutter and he laughs louder.

So it's 2.25pm and I am outside Ms Brandon's house. Sherlock isn't here; he's stayed at 221b because Lestrade is calling over later and, to be honest, I thought I'd do better alone. Less of an audience for the embarrassment.

After one long breath I lift the silver knocker and announce my presence at the door. After a moment it opens and it's the maid. She's the same small, dark haired woman who answered the door to Sherlock.

"I've got an appointment with Ms Brandon. I'm erm..."

"Mr. Vinyl," she grins, "we all loved that name!" I try to smile and she leads me into the house.

Whatever I expected of the interior is not what I see. The place light and airy, high ceilings and is lavishly decorated, regency chairs upholstered in gold material, marble tables with large plants atop them and a long black marble staircase which winds down from the upper storey. It's beautiful in a cold way.

The maid leads me to a room which has a chaise longue, a sofa and a chair all covered in deep purple velvet. The wood of the furniture is dark, almost black and is complimented by the coffee table on which sits a cut glass fruit bowl filled with wrapped sweets. The bright colours of the packets reflect off the glass facets and glimmer on the dark wood. Long shuttered windows let in the light and there is an enormous fireplace with a real fire crackling and spitting at the other end of the room. It's warm in here, pleasantly so after the chill London air and I take off my jacket. The maid puts out her hand and takes it from me.

"Ms Brandon will be down in a moment, can I get you coffee? Tea?"

"Coffee please." It's all very civilised. I sit in the armchair and try not to stroke the upholstery, it's tactile and comfortable. I unwrap a sweet and then wonder where to put the wrapper. I stuff it into a pocket.

I had a major panic about what to wear today. Sherlock's comments were not helpful. In the end I put on my best black jeans and the jumper I wore to Harry's. I'm all in black so I think I should fit in. I have to get some more clothes at some point.

I'm just thinking this and picking some lint off the knee of my jeans when the door opens and Ms Brandon walks in. She is an amazingly stunning woman. Pale skin, red lips, large dark eyes. Her hair is blonde and piled on her head and she's wearing a sharp grey business suit. She might be a rich business woman, she probably is, the only thing which might give her away are her shoes. They are patent and have a wickedly sharp high heel. I find myself staring at them. She puts out her hand for me to shake.

"Mr. Vinyl," she doesn't laugh or even smile. Her expression is professional, polite. "How wonderful to meet a friend of Simon's." This reminds me why I'm here. What has happened to Simon?

"Hi, Ms Brandon. Yes, Simon gave me your number and said I should get in touch with you. He said you had some interesting gatherings which I might like to attend." She smiles. She really is stunning.

"How is Simon? We've not seen him for a while?" her concern seems genuine. I file the comment away. "Of course you'll be eager to get going and we'll get to that but first I'd like to find out a little about your interests and about you. Have you been part of a group before...?" She's asking my name.

"John," I say. "John Holmes." She smiles again.

"John, have you been a member of a group before?"

"No," I shake my head. "I've erm... played with partners before but never a group."

"And are you with someone now?" Oh dear. I go for honesty.

"Yes, yes I am. I think he's had some experience before but I'm not sure." She nods again and takes a PDA from a drawer in the coffee table.

"Do you mind if I? I like to keep everyone's details on file so we can ensure you get what you want and no one..."

"Gets hurt?" I offer smiling. She chuckles.

"Well, not quite. At least not if that isn't what they want." Her smile broadens. I laugh, relaxing into the conversation. She taps on the screen with the tiny pen.

"So I have a checklist you might want to look at and then we can talk about previous experience. Do you have any previous experience John?" I like her, she seems kind and genuine and I want to tell her the truth. I tell her half of it.

"Well, like I said I've had some experience of role play," Jennifer Slater, aged 21 she dressed as a nurse, once. "And I've had some experience with pain," Sandra Bingham, aged 25, chewed my nipple a bit enthusiastically. "And some experience of bondage," Sherlock Holmes aged 34 pinned to kitchen table with jacket. "I think I liked the bondage best." She grins.

"I think we might be just the people for you." She hands me the PDA as the maid brings in the coffee. Ms Brandon stands up.

"I just have something with which I must attend. Please, look at the checklist, tick off what you can and I'll answer any questions when I get back." I'm left alone. I look at the list in my hands.

Anal penetration, anal fisting, triple penetration, fellatio, group sex, exhibitionism, breath play, edge play, bondage – knots or fastenings, gags, slings, spreader bars, suspension, corsetry, enforced feminisation, golden showers/scat, humiliation - verbal, physical, public, enforced chastity, kidnap play, age play, interrogation, role play. Jesus. I click the next page. It's full of instruments, props I suppose paddles, canes, whips, crops. I have no idea what to tick.

Ms Brandon comes back and I frown. She frowns too.

"Is everything ok? Did you not see something you liked?" She is concerned as though I am buying a car and want the colour they don't have.

"No, no. I was wondering if you have a paper copy I could..." she brings one from behind her back with a flourish and a warm smile.

"People often find this a little daunting John, don't worry. As long as you get it back to me by Saturday morning so I can arrange anything special for you." It's all so amicable, so normal I am feeling like I just fell into a very surreal novel.

"Thanks. Thanks." I fold the paper and hold it in my hand. Ms Brandon looks uncomfortable for a moment.

"John, I'm very sorry but... well a client is proving very difficult and I think I had better go and attend..." she grimaces slightly.

"Of course, of course, I'll just get my jacket and ..." she smiles as the maid bring the very item of clothing in.

"Well I look forward to seeing you on Saturday John. Although I might not... oh did I mention it's a masked party? It adds to the fun although most people can tell who they are playing with." I gulp. "And do bring your partner if he's up for it."

The maid sees me to the door and I start to walk down towards the tube station.

My mind is buzzing with random thoughts. How was she going to deal with her client? With a whip? A dildo? What is Sherlock going to make of this list? I have to admit the idea of going through it with him, finding out what he knows, what he might have done, is interesting. I grin to myself. A mask, I have to get a mask. I stop on the street. I have become so enamoured of the role I was playing I realise I have agreed to go on Saturday to a BDSM play party. Fucking hell.

Hey, hey, hey to The Baker St Irregulars! I can't get over how helpful and lovely and enthusiastic you all are!I love you: PrincessNala Peachsilk, Darmed (where are you?), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate(and where are you?) , 2cajuman2,Tanya Zsa Zsa, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild! You're wonderful people!

Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx


	4. The List

When I get back Lestrade is there. Something about the list in my pocket must be written on my face because he looks up from the newspaper he is reading, coffee on the table, and he frowns.

"All right John? Oh, nice jeans mate. What've you been up to?" Sherlock is in the kitchen, he laughs a dark laugh.

"Erm... just been out." I am hopeless. At least we know I'd never make a criminal with my world class lying skills. Sherlock laughs harder, Lestrade' frown deepens.

"Ok..." he mumbles going back to his paper.

"John's been to join a BDSM club!" announce Sherlock, passing me a coffee. How did he know to make me a coffee? He sees my expression. "Phoned you, no signal, figured you were on the tube." I nod.

"Oh. I see. Right. thanks." we sit down and realise Lestrade is just sitting there gawping at us both. His expression is horror mingled with interest. Then it registers what Sherlock just told him. Ah.

"You're into... I mean... you know... whips, erm, leather."

"Bondage, gags, suspension, spreader bars..." Sherlock looks wistfully and he's doing a convincing impression of someone reminiscing. Jesus. And more importantly how does he know about these things? Lestrade has put down the paper and is choking on his coffee. Sherlock looks at him. "You're not going to tell me Geoff that you've never tried a little bondage?" Lestrade's eyes bug out of his head and I chuckle. Sherlock is a bit of a bastard sometimes, well, all the time.

Lestrade wipes his hand across his mouth and chin.

"No... No... Well..." Sherlock cuts him of before he can make a confession. "Anyway, that's where John's been! Have fun darling?" I wince; does he have to do that? I start to nod, then shake my head then I just shrug. I have no idea what the right answer is.

"So, Lestrade, tell John what you've just told me." Sherlock puts his big feet on the table and drinks his coffee. Lestrade sits forward, he's more comfortable with this conversation, and puts the paper down.

"There's this bloke, Gus Fairman, or Freimann, we're not sure, anyway we think he's the man running this sex trafficking ring. Sherlock's tips on where to look proved useful." I glance at Sherlock who is grinning smugly.

"Do you know what he looks like?" I ask, ever practical. Lestrade nods.

"Yep. Got a nice grainy photo of his from about ten years ago. He might have changed of course but some things about him won't have done." He pulls a photo from his pocket and hands it to me.

The man in the picture is large and bald. Lestrade's right, it's not a great photo and I there's not much to go on but there's one distinguishing feature. Mr Fairman/Freimann has a long scar running the length of his cheek. It even bisects his eyebrow on the left hand side. I nod.

"Ok, so how can we help?" Sherlock sighs and puts his coffee down.

"Lestrade has this idea that we might find Mr Fairman more easily than he will, on account of our anonymity. There's a bar he wants us to visit, is that right Lestrade?" Lestrade nods and writes an address down on the edge of the newspaper. I shake my head.

"I'm not doing this again Sherlock. Look what the last address on a piece of paper got me." I sit back in the chair and fold my arms. Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes at Lestrade.

"Ok. I'll go alone," he says, getting up like he's going now even though he's still wearing that awful dressing gown and pyjamas. It's five in the afternoon. I know what he's doing; he's trying to make me worry about him like I did with the Sydney Doyle thing. And, damn him, it works.

"Ok, ok, I'll come but can we do it after Saturday please? We've got enough on." I look at Lestrade expecting protest but he nods.

"Yeah that's fine. It's all been quiet for a few days anyway. How about Sunday?" I nod looking at Sherlock who is beaming now he has his own way. He stands up, the disgusting pale blue dressing gown flaps about him.

"Well Geoff if that's all, I think John has a list of BDSM activities he'd like me to look at."Sherlock rubs his hands and I rub my eyebrow and Lestrade grins.

"I guess you'll be _tied_ up for the evening then?" he laughs at his own joke. "I suppose it _beats_ watching Corrie." Again the chuckle. These two are proper comedians. Sherlock grins and waves as Lestrade, still laughing, leaves the flat. "Don't lose the keys lads!" he shouts as he bangs the front door.

Sherlock stretches like a cat and cracks his knuckles over his head. He grins at me and it's that shark grin. Oh dear.

"Let's see it then." He snaps his long fingers and I pass him the two sheets of A4. "Oh thorough. Nice." he sits back down in the armchair and begins to read, occasionally pursing his lips, nodding or raising an eyebrow. I feel completely left out of it. He looks up and he must notice this because he walks over the coffee table and throws himself down on the sofa next to me. Then he puts an arm about my shoulders. At first I think he's being affectionate but then I realise that our proximity means we can both read the list.

"Are there any of these you don't understand John?" his expression is inquisitive but not cruel. I point to the first of the baffling phrases, breath play. He nods sagely.

"Ah. Well, breath play is about controlling your partner's breathing. You might have heard about these celebrities, politicians who have met an untimely end with a lamp cord tied about their necks?" I nod. Michael Hutchence I think to myself. "Well, what isn't commonly known that lack of oxygen to the brain at the point of orgasm makes the whole experience remarkably intense and pleasurable. So much so that people risk death by doing it on their own." I process this information. Surely this is dangerous.

"Isn't it... well... dangerous?" he chuckles.

"Most things on this list are dangerous John, that's what makes it exciting! Remember how we discussed your limp? What Mycroft said about your predilection for danger? Well, these people are the same."

"But what if it goes wrong?" I frown and finish my coffee.

"This is where that trust I was talking about comes in John. Remember I said that some BDSM relationships have more explicit trust than other 'vanilla' relationships." I frown again, vanilla?

"It's what kinksters call people who aren't into these things."

"Oh. Like muggles in Harry Potter?" Sherlock grins.

"Only you could bring Harry Potter into a conversation about breath play John. Yes. Just like muggles."

"So, basically I'd put my hands or some kind of scarf around your throat as you started to come and then you'd have the mother of all orgasms. Is that how it works?" he quirks an eyebrow.

"You're assuming you'd be the dominant partner there John..." I gulp. "But yes, that's part of it. Also some submissives get off just on being controlled on such a primal level." I nod and point my finger.

"Edge play? Is that knives?" Sherlock nods. I move my finger. "Slings? Spreader bars?" Sherlock gets up and reaches for the laptop. I've stopped paying attention to whom this particular machine belongs now because he appropriates all my stuff.

He taps the keyboard and on the screen is something that looks like equipment from a goth children's playground. It's a black frame but instead of the usual seat there are a few straps and what appears to be cuffs hanging from some chain. I raise an eyebrow.

"I'm guessing you get strapped in and the sensation of suspension does something to the experience? Is it about control again?" Sherlock nods, he's obviously pleased I am catching on so quickly.

"Exactly, so much of this stuff is about control. Either mental or actual physical control." I look at the sling a little more. It seems interesting and I wonder briefly about how it might afford the possibility of new positions which the bed and the sofa and the kitchen table have not allowed us. Then I realise what I'm doing and I think I blush. Sherlock chuckles and stands up.

"And spreader bars?" I ask, moving quickly on. He goes out of the room and comes back with two long black poles. Each has a silver loop in the end and I can see that they are telescopic. What on earth are these for... I begin to wonder but then a more pressing question overtakes me... why has Sherlock got them in the flat? I must look alarmed because he laughs. He extends and contracts the poles so I can see how wide they go.

"What do you do...? Why have you got...?" Do I really want to know? Yes, I do actually.

"Well, you can fasten one ankle to one end," he puts the pole between my feet and moves one of my feet until it is at the edge of the bar, "and then you do the same with the other..." he moves the other foot. Suddenly I am spread wide and I have to sit back on the sofa. I feel vulnerable, exposed. Now I get it. I shuffle my feet back, he grins.

"Why two bars?" I try not to sound excited but something about that position has started to make me hard. Of course he's noticed and his grin broadens.

"So that I can fasten your hands and your feet John," he leans in to me and kisses my mouth slowly. This doesn't help me at all. My blood is pounding and suddenly I couldn't give a damn about the list. "So that you're completely helpless." Oh dear.

His kiss gets more intense and less teasing, demanding and fierce. I can't catch my breath at all and I push him away so I can breathe, his grin is right in my face.

"I think it's a bit early to try out the bars John," god help me but a part of me is disappointed. "But I wondered if you'd let me..." he trails off and he takes my hand and leads me to the bedroom. He lays me on the bed and brings his soft grey woollen scarf from the bed head. He leans over me and wraps it carefully around my eyes. My nose is filled with the sandalwood smell of Sherlock and the gentle caress of the soft wool is soothing. For a moment I tense, listening, aware that my lack of vision has left me vulnerable, then I let go, into the bed. I spread my arms out and relax my shoulders and I hear him chuckle.

I can't help but listen for where he is and I guess entirely wrongly and he's on the other side of me, lifting my hand. His lips touch each finger gently and the feeling is so intense I gasp. It's just my hand for god's sake. He kisses the back and then the palm, running his tongue along the delicate skin between my fingers. The sensation is maddening, thrilling. He sucks my thumb into his mouth; the warm softness makes me moan. He licks and sucks and I know he is not thinking about my thumb, neither am I. I am fully dressed and he's kissed my hand and I might just come right here. Jesus. I can't help another moan, a hiss through my teeth as he begins on the next finger. He chuckles slightly and the feel of his breath on me makes my blood pulse faster.

He moves from my hand up to the tender skin inside my wrist. He kisses the place where my blood is running madly, up and up, folding the arm of my jumper, until he reaches the inside of my elbow. I am on fire. I am struggling to stay still, not to writhe around, so exquisite and slow are his actions. He pushes my jumper up, the soft, silky knit rides up easily, and he runs his hands over my nipples. That invisible thread of lust traces taut down my body. I can't help moving now, tiny bucking movements, my hips can't stop themselves.

His hands feel their way along me and he holds me down. He licks first the right nipple, gently and then nipping insistently. Then the left and I am undone. Goodnight Vienna. All sense of propriety, all ego, all care for how I look, sound, act is gone.

"Ah Sherlock, please..." he doesn't stop; he trails a wet tongue down my body and licks along my waistband. The anticipation is overwhelming. Thankfully, he doesn't mess about. He flicks off my shoes and socks, unfastens my jeans and slides them down over my legs. The cool air stiffens the hairs on my legs and my erection, painfully confined until now, is freed held only by the thin cotton of my shorts.

Suddenly, through the flimsy material, his mouth is on my delicate skin. I gasp and my hands come up to grab his head, make him take more, go deeper, but I put them back. I want to feel this surrender, this yielding.

He inches my shorts down and off. He licks along the length of me and I groan.

"Oh god Sherlock. That feel so good...so good." I feel him smile against my flesh. Then he swallows me. His mouth is hot and wet and he hollows his cheeks and sucks me hard. I can't see him but I find the image of him, his dark head between my legs, his full mouth smoothing over my skin is so erotic that it's almost better than watching him. Just when I think it's too much, when I want to come and feel him swallow, he is gone. The cold air hits my wet skin, inflaming me further. I moan, and my body jumps and thrusts, oblivious to my control.

He is lying next to me now, his skin doesn't touch mind but I feel the pressure in the bed. His mouth is at my ear. He takes my hand.

"John, you look so beautiful like this." Oh god his voice has that dark, sensual quality he has in times like this. "Really, you're quite... extraordinary. So hard. Is it all for me?" I nod, beyond coherent speech now. "Good," I hear him smiling.

He runs my hand down his chest, my god he's naked. It seems that the heightening of sensation brought on by the blindfold doesn't just work when he's touching me. I concentrate on his skin, how smooth and warm he is. How his chest rises and falls with his ragged breathing. I am panting. This is too much.

My fingers skim his nipples and he hisses through his teeth. The skin here is like silk, fine and delicate. Tiny soft hairs curl gently around the tiny bumps of his hard nipples. I roll one between my fingers and am rewarded by a growl. It makes me smile. I capture both of them and nip and roll. More growling.

"Ah god John, ugh, that feels so good." He moves my hands and I skim them down his body. His cock is hard, so hard. I tease my fingers along it. Did I say his nipples were like silk? No, because then this skin, this intimate, hot skin, flushed I know with his blood, is so soft, so delicate that I can't find an analogy. I run my hands over him, along him, not really for what this is doing to him, although he is thrusting and bucking, but how he feels to me, to my exploring fingers. I stroke and caress, marvelling at the hot smoothness of his body. He is moaning now and thrusting.

Then his hands are on me again. I bring my hands up along the length of his hard on and he copies my actions. With the blindfold the sensation is heightened. His long fingers stoke the fire in me and I feel him responding to my caresses. We move together, our bodies almost frantic. In the dark of the blindfold the pressure is overwhelming, all consuming. I can't imagine anything else but his maddening, inflaming hands and the feel of his cock in my palm. We push each other fast, harder.

"John, John, god man, I love you, that feels so... so..." he comes, I feel him spilling and twitching in my hands and it sends me after him. I shout wordlessly, all my essence concentrated on that part of me in his hands.

His arms over me he lies still, panting. I struggle for breath, to still my pulse and ride the warm afterglow spreading through me like sleep. His hands are on my face and he kisses my mouth softly as he peels back the scarf. It's a dim light in the room now but I still have to adjust, I blink and squint.

When I can see Sherlock is leaning on his elbow, smiling at me. I smile back.

"I love you Sherlock Holmes, you're bloody amazing at that." he laughs and then shrugs his shoulders.

"I know." He chuckles, his words belying his modest shrug. "You're not so bad yourself." I grin.

"Thanks."I look down at the scarf beside us on the mattress. "I'll never quite look at that thing again in the same light." he nods.

"Me neither. Good isn't it?" We both laugh. He frowns and pulls the duvet over us, he's right, now our bodies are cooling down and it's chilly in here.

Even though I'm in my best jumper and it's probably creased and sticky, even though it's probably only eight o'clock I feel myself drifting off to sleep, my body tired and deliciously heavy. Sherlock's breathing is slowing and I know he is feeling this too. I move my head and kiss his forehead, he is already snoring gently. It occurs to me that I understand something about trust now. Is that why he did this? I don't think I really care. I settle back into his arms and let go.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

So, are they going to the Play Party? Why HAS Sherlock got spreader bars and will he use them? Will John us them? :D leave me a review... what was hot, what made you laugh and I'll get cracking on the next bit!

Respect due to The Baker St Irregulars! You're enthusiasm, comments and support are great motivation! PrincessNala (yay you're back!), Peachsilk (a sweetheart if ever there was one), Darmed (nice to have you back), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate(and where are you?) , 2cajuman2,Tanya Zsa Zsa, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild! Love you!

Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx


	5. Playtime!

It's Saturday, 7.15pm to be precise and I have only just managed to get out of the shower. I spent all day on Oxford Street, trying desperately to find something to wear to this bloody party. What do people wear to these things? In the end I couldn't bring myself to go in the sex shops in Soho, after all I'm short and stocky and I don't want to look like that guy from the Village People, you know the one. I decided on another nice pair of black jeans, after all everyone seems to compliment me in them. And a plain black t shirt with some pewter kind of studs along one side of the shoulder and arm. Oh, and I bought some big black boots. It's a bit fetish but still looks like me I think, well I hope so. God.

My thoughts are racing as I towel my hair and wonder what Sherlock's wearing. He's bought our masks, both fantastically similar to Robin's from the Dynamic Duo. I spent ages pitching my fist into my hand and saying 'Holy Bondage party Sherlock', but he just looked confused, I'm not going to ask in case he doesn't know who Batman is. I don't think I could take it. I look in the mirror and, for the second time in bloody ages, bung some wax into my hair. I still can't see any difference.

When I go into the lounge there are two glasses of whisky on the coffee table, I down one and go to fill it again, I'm going to need all the courage I can get, fake or otherwise. The door opens behind me but I am still pouring so I don't turn immediately. When I do I am dumbstruck. I have absolutely no words for how Sherlock looks.

His long, lithe legs are clad in leather, black leather which looks so soft that I want to touch it. They're just tight enough to count but not so tight that they look silly or camp, they're almost like very expensive biker leathers. His boots are similar to mine and I absentmindedly wonder if we got them from the same shop. The boots can't hold my attention for long because, on his torso Sherlock is wearing a thin mesh long sleeved top. The black mesh highlights and shadows his naked skin. I can see that the back of the top is opaque material but his muscles and his nipples are clearly visible through the thin material of the front panel. If you'd asked me to imagine this I don't think I could have done it but now, he stands so casually, so unconsciously and he looks, well, sexy frankly. Jesus.

His hair is as wild as ever but it's slightly shinier, like he too has used something on those dark curls this time. I've seen this man in full disguise, in enough of a disguise to change him utterly but this, this is something else entirely. He strides over to me; his whole demeanour has changed with the outfit, just like it did with Sydney Doyle. Bloody hell. Who is this? He smiles and takes the glass from the table, downs the drink. I watch his Adam's apple bob but it's not for long because I can't help but look what he has done to his long, lean body.

"Nice jeans John." I smile and he laughs," and I like the t shirt. He comes nearer and runs his hand down the front of my t shirt, like he's feeling the material. He smells wonderful, slightly more of that sandalwood scent he usually has and I can feel the warmth radiating from his naked skin through the thin fabric of his top.

"You look... erm... great." I mumble like a twelve year old, actually, I can think of twelve year olds with more panache. He grins and kisses me once, whisky, sandalwood and Sherlock all invading my senses at one. My head is swimming.

"Thanks," he breathes in my ear as he kisses my cheek, my neck. "I didn't want to embarrass you." him? Embarrass me? When he looks like that. I shake my head. He stands up; the abrupt change from lover to business is dizzying. He steeples his hands under his chin and the contrast between my Sherlock and this man before me is stark.

"How do we play this? Pardon the pun." He's pulling on his coat. The long tail at the back and the thick, soft wool don't look out of place with the trousers and I'm glad he covered the rest up; I was going to start hyperventilating. I shrug, pulling on my jacket.

"I didn't give any indication to who is the ... Top." I try to remember the vocab. Sherlock grins. Buttoning my jacket but I am thinking fast

"Well, what would you prefer? I'm happy either way John." I pause and pretend to be concentrating on buttoning my jacket but I am thinking fast. If I say bottom, I don't have to do anything but follow Sherlock's lead but I have no idea what I am getting myself into. Will these people expect certain behaviour from me? I read in one of the research books, I have to admit I was more interested than I thought I would be, that a 'sub' is expected to have their head down and generally have a subservient manner towards their Dom. I'm not sure I'll get it right and someone might catch on. But then if I say Top then I have no idea what they will expect of me but at least I won't have to worry about what I am doing because, as far as I can work out, a Dom does what they like.

"I think I'd like to Top," I say in possibly the most sheepish voice that sentence has ever been uttered in. Get a grip man. Sherlock beams like this is the right answer.

"Wonderful," he says, all smiles. "So I'll just behave then." There's a twinkle in his eye and it makes me wonder what his idea of behaving is exactly. Oh dear. "Of course, no one might ask, in which case we can just go as observers and see what happens." I frown.

Oh god. I can't have sex in public. I just can't. Will they all be at it? Will it be expected? Suddenly this is all not just hypothetical, not just a game, we're really going. I, John Watson, lately of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers, am going to a BDSM party. With a man in leather trousers. Fucking hell. I think I'm actually scared.

"What?" Sherlock is pouring another whisky into my glass, much more and I'll be getting drunk. Is he trying to help?

"We're not going to... you know... I can't..." he frowns and I can see him filling in the blanks.

"Have sex? In front of people. No. No we're not John. That's not our relationship is it? I mean... I didn't think it was... is it?" I can see him thinking this through. Before he gets chance to come to a conclusion I interrupt.

"No, no Sherlock, it isn't." He nods.

"Well, no then. That won't happen. And don't loan me out to anyone either." What? Loan him...? I don't want to think about it. I just nod and grab my keys.

Before we leave he kisses me again.

"This is such fun John! I'm so happy to have you to share this with!" his grin is infectious. He bounds down the stair with that scary burst of energy he seems to have.

I'm paying the cabbie and Sherlock is nearly up the steps of Ms Brandon's house when he seems to remember what the new rules are and comes back down and stands with me. I raise an eyebrow and then realise what he's doing. It would look odd if anyone saw us acting outside of our 'characters' for the evening. I pass him his mask from my jacket pocket and he slips it under his hair and over his eyes. It looks like it's staying there by sheer willpower because his curls hide the thin strap which fastens it at the back. I slide mine over my hair and we go up the steps. I ring the doorbell.

The maid answers the door and lets us in. The house is dark but for a long line of candles which pick out each of the steps of the curving staircase. The maid doesn't speak but we're ushered to a small reception table where we sign our 'names'. I look at Sherlock; we didn't decide a name for him. He shrugs, I scribble 'the boy wonder' and he grins, white teeth sharp in the dim light.

She points up the stairs and I go first, Sherlock follows. I can hear music from another room, it's opera, maybe Wagner, and it sounds like it's loud inside the room and much quieter out here.

"Sound proofing." Whispers Sherlock, "very clever." I frown. "For the screams." He grins again and I feel myself go red, thank god it's dark.

No idea where to go I push the door from which the music seems to come. The room is similarly lit by candles but there are millions of them, all over every surface, most of them high enough so that they can't be easily knocked over. People sit around on more expensive French furniture done out in gold and black and they are drinking, laughing, talking. At first glance they could be any well heeled crowd at a party.

But on closer inspection I notice the leather corsets, the pale exposed skin, the silver glint of chokers with metal rings and a propensity of latex. Blue, red, vivid pink and, of course, black latex is smoothed over legs, breasts, crotches and even one man's entire head leaving only holes for eyes, nose and mouth.

Some people sit and other people, I presume their subs, kneel by them or hover behind them, heads down. I am just taking in this spectacle and trying my hardest not to gawp when a tall woman with long dark hair in a severe ponytail strides over to us.

"Sherlock Holmes! As I live and breathe!" she exclaims in a mock cockney accent, a wide smile across her severe red lipsticked mouth. She is wearing a tight leather corset and I can see the laces nipping into her pale skin. She is tall and this is made more extreme by her thigh high patent stiletto boots. She's wearing latex knickers and some kind of leather belt with a ring in the front. There is something magnetic, animally attractive about her. "Bloody hell man! It's been a long time!" her voice is refined now she is not putting on her comedy accent, cultured and well educated. There is a long silence and I look at Sherlock who isn't speaking. The woman raises a perfect eyebrow at me.

"I think he's waiting for permission to speak dear." She grins. "Bless him; he's such a good boy from what I remember." I look at Sherlock. He has his head down but he is smirking.

"Erm... permission to speak." I say feeling like I'm back in the army. Suddenly something clicks I can do this. I went to boot camp. I've done drill. "And you can look up too."

Sherlock's head comes up and he is smiling.

"Lola! How wonderful to see you mistress!" she holds out a manicured hand with long, wickedly red nails. Sherlock kisses it. I try not to goggle at them both. Sherlock's a good boy? From what she can remember?

"Darling, it has been far too long!" she exclaims and her smile is genuinely happy. "Look, Rose, look who I found!" she says this to a woman who is just behind her. I realise now that she is wearing a collar and a lead, the end of which is in Lola's hand. The woman is blonde and tanned, she is wearing a short red leather skirt and a corset, I can't see her face because she has her head down and her hair glitters in the light. Lola puts her hand on the woman's' chin and raises her head. It's a strange gesture, so commanding and yet loving in an intense way.

Rose looks up and she has the most beautiful blue eyes I've ever seen. She smiles a big smile at me and then a wider one at Sherlock.

"Rose!" Sherlock grins and she blinks and looks at Lola who inclines her head slightly.

"Go on beauty." Rose beams at her. It's strange to see this level of affection when one of the couple is on a dog lead, albeit a sparkly black one.

"Sherlock," she's America, her voice has a soft twang and I immediately like her. "Great to see you. Where've you been?" she angles an eyebrow at me and giggles. Sherlock laughs.

"This is John; we've not been together long but..." I look at him, what was he going to say? Rose nods.

"I can see..." she laughs again and this time Lola joins in.

"Sherlock, Rose, run along and get us two thirsty Masters a drink will you?" Rose grabs Sherlock's hand and they walk to the back of the room where there's obviously some sort of bar. Lola turns her gaze on me; she's frightening and not a little fascinating.

"So, how did you meet him? I've never seen him like this with anyone." She crosses her legs and shifts the metal ring on her leather belt. I realise what it is she is wearing; it's a harness for a dildo. I saw one in a book Sherlock brought home. I gulp.

"Erm... we shared a flat. Well, we do share a flat. And, it sort of happened..." she beams and pouts her hand on mine.

"Well, I'm very glad it did. He seems very happy." I relax, she isn't trying to poach him, or borrow him. She's being an interested friend. "How long have you been playing?" she asks.

Something about her, something about her personality, her smile makes me want to trust her so I do.

"Well, we don't really play to be honest. We've just experimented a bit." She laughs a really amused belly laugh.

"Oh priceless! Sherlock and his bloody experiments!" she is beside herself, wiping her eyes with those perfect fingertips. "He's not still at it is he? I've never met anyone so bloody determined to do it all, twice!" I laugh; it's what I think of him myself.

"So, do you know him from his experimenting?"

"Yes, I had just met Rose. We're in a relationship as well as being play partners, and Sherlock approached us at a club. Said he wanted 'to try the experience with two women'. We thought he was a compete nutter but he convinced us he was just trying everything he could. He's so gorgeous we decided to let him!" she laughs again. "Listen, John," she leans forward she smells of Roses and close up she's a bit overwhelming. "If you want any advice on this business," she waves her hand about at the people, some of whom are dancing now. "Then just ring me. I'll get my number to you." I nod.

"Thanks... cheers."

"Does he still do that bloody thing where he rushes to get his clothes off?" she is laughing again. For a moment it sinks in that this woman has probably had sex with Sherlock. A small flare of jealousy zips through me and then I realise that she isn't a threat. She's an ally in all this. Sherlock is with me and he isn't interested in anyone else. Instead of being angry I grin and nod. "God. The amount of times I had to punish him for doing that, great fun!" I can't help but laugh. She isn't what I thought these people were like at all. She's refreshing and frank and well, nice.

Sherlock and Rose come back. Rose has a large wine glass and Sherlock a pint of something that looks like Guinness. Just as I am about to take the glass someone behind Rose catches my eye. It is a man; he's wearing a dark suit and a mask so I can't be certain of his identity. He is standing in the doorway of a room. As he leans against the door jamb he steeples his fingers under his chin. Mycroft. I look at Sherlock who doesn't seem to have noticed. Lola is telling Rose she wants to go to a back room. I look up sharply, uncertain if I want to tell Sherlock his brother is here.

"Back room John?" Lola is standing, grabbing hold of Rose's lead. I frown. "Rose and I have promised Ms Brandon we'll do a little show." She is gesturing to a small black doctor's bag I hadn't noticed at her feet. I look at Sherlock who shakes his head a little.

"Maybe later Lola, thanks for the invitation." She smiles and kisses my cheek and offers her hand to Sherlock.

"Right, let's get this show on the road!" she strides away and Rose meekly follows.

"Show?" I question, Sherlock frowns.

"Might be a bit intense for you John, for your first time? Lola puts on a hell of a show." He raises both his eyebrows to emphasise the comment. I grimace. "Do you want to go and look back there?" he nods towards the back where a number of doors seem to lead off in different directions.

"Maybe," I blow out a long breath. I feel excited but scared. And worried to be honest. I thought I had a grip on how I felt about this but I've become remarkably accustomed to the naked flesh and exposed nipples around me. And of course I still can't get over Sherlock's outfit. I mean, god, the mesh just enhances his smooth skin. It's almost more indecent than being naked. He is sitting back on the seat and the leather of the trousers just stretches over his crotch, stop looking John, stop looking.

"Come on," he is waiting for me to stand, this is so complicated. I'm so used to him haring off and me following after but maybe that's the point, it's a switch, a turn around. I let that thought 'percolate'. I get up and he nods towards a door on our right, luckily away from where Mycroft was standing but I can't see him now.

We stand in the doorway; I've got to say my first reaction is that I don't want to go inside. There is a woman, suspended upside down on an X shaped frame while a man dressed in a latex cat suit swats at her bare arse with a thin, long tailed whip. She is whimpering and the small crowd watching and mumbling encouragement.

"One more." The man with the whip says and brings his arm down with a swish. I can see the red lines across her body and the way she flinches from the weapon in his hand. Every part of me screams to go and help her. Sherlock's hand is discretely on my arm.

"Watch," he murmurs.

The man puts down the whip and goes to the woman. He strokes her head affectionately while he unclips her hands. He rubs her wrists and, guiltily, I remember doing just that same thing to Sherlock's arms after I pinned him to the table with his jacket. I look at him, he raises an eyebrow.

"Well done darling, what a good girl I have, I'm so proud." The man says softly to the woman as he runs his hands soothingly down her legs and unclips her ankles. As he leads her away I hear some of the crowd congratulating her, telling how well she's done like she just passed some kind of exam. It's not what I expected. There's such a sense of community in the room, of looking after one another.

Sherlock tugs my arm and we turn to go into another room. Two men are on a small stage. One is leaning back against the wall, his hands tightly gripping the hair of the other man who is naked on his knees before him. The standing man is drawing his partner's mouth along his cock by the force of pulling his hair. Both are moaning and they seem oblivious to the few people watching. On the floor I notice several instruments I don't recognise and two that I do, the spreader bars.

As if reading my mind the standing man pushes his partner away. His hard cock glistens with saliva in the dim light. Still on his knees the submissive is turned so that he is on all fours. His Dom quickly fastens the bars on his feet while a member of the crowd, at a nod from the Dom, does the same for his hands.

"What do you want" the Dom hisses in the submissive's ear. I have to admit I am turned on. I don't want to be and my brain refuses to process this new information, but, god help me, I am.

"I want you to fuck me, Sir." Without a pause the submissive's voice is clear. Part of me is impressed with his lack of shyness but I don't get chance to think much because then the Dom produces a bottle of lube from the floor and, after liberally applying it to himself and his partner, rams his cock into the helpless man eliciting a growl from his 'victim'.

Except victim is not quite right the right word. As I watch them thrust and moan and I try to avoid the fact that this is getting me hard, I can tell that they are both enjoying this. I can remember all too well the feeling I had when Sherlock put my feet at the end of those bars and I can't help but imagine how it would be if that was me on the floor, splayed wide and Sherlock behind me, fucking me with such passion and ferocity.

I am not looking at Sherlock but I can hear him breathing beside me and his chest is heaving. I try not to think about how his cock will feel, hard through the leather of his trousers. I just want to go home, now. The men on the stage are reaching their climax. The sound of their skin slapping together and their growls and moans are too much for me, I begin to turn away and that's when I see him.

Because standing just to the side of us, watching the men with a look of boredom is a man with a scar down the side of his face. The man from Lestrade's pictures.

I was only supposed to write half of this chapter tonight but... well, you can't just do half of a play party you know? I was treading a fine line between this being an erotic chapter, an informative chapter , a fun chapter and not freaking you lot out too much (I'm sure there were worse things happening in those other rooms ) so let me know how I did ok? How did you feel about:

Mycroft being there?

Lola and Rose?

Sherlock's outfit?

John's reaction to the party?

I cannot go a chapter without thanking The Baker St Irregulars! This fic would not be here without: PrincessNala (LMJO), Peachsilk (pepe talker extraoprdinaire), Darmed (stalker, icecream fan, major review girl), Clubba Bear (partner in crime), Tasty- Kate(will our babies look like a Ben Cumberbatch/Matt Smith hybrid? ) , 2cajuman2(are you ok?),Tanya Zsa Zsa (happy dance), Aelfric's cat(constant advice), Nellyington (thanks for telling me about the amazing pic on Deviantart based on the Liverpool St BJ) , mrs winny ( a gem) and Despairandcupcakechild (such a sweetheart) and Mouserjb4 (fellow Northerner in the zone!) ! Love you!

Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx


	6. All work and no play make John Watson

I pull back from the doorway and Sherlock follows me. I wander off towards the high, shuttered windows and lean against the wall. I pull Sherlock towards me and kiss him. His breath is ragged and he makes a small whimpering sound and pushes against me. I can feel how hard he is through the leather of the trousers and my jeans.

"Sherlock."

"God yes John, anything."

"No, no Sherlock listen!" he pulls back slightly but I still have hold of the back of his head so his nose is still touching mine. He looks confused for a moment. "Sherlock I need to tell you something." He goes still. I can feel his heart hammering in his chest and he is still breathing heavily but he looks at me intently.

"What?" he frowns.

"Gus Freeman is in that room." his eyes widen and I nod. "He's watching the ...show." I end for want of a better description. From the open doorway I hear the unmistakable sound of the two men coming. I'm afraid of what it does to me. Sherlock has stopped frowning and I can almost hear him thinking.

"If we're going to see him tomorrow then we can't see him here." He whispers. Someone is walking down the corridor in our direction, they're probably going to another room but I can't risk them overhearing or being suspicious. I grab Sherlock's head and kiss him again. It's like his body just picks up where he left off. He moans and rubs himself against me. The footsteps get nearer and then stop. The person is watching us. I can't see their face from where I am but I can feel their gaze on us.

"Get on your knees." I say in my best drill sergeant voice. I still have it in me; I think and I smile to myself. Sherlock's eyes widen but then he just complies. He kneels there and awaits instruction. I'm not going to let him suck my cock on the corridor thank you, with some stranger watching but I have to do something so I pull his face level with my crotch and rub against his cheek. He moans and it's not for effect, I can tell. The figure steps forward.

"Oh god, don't go any further or I'll never sear it from my memory." It is Mycroft. I expect Sherlock to leap to his feet but instead he runs his teeth along me. I yelp, not from pain and my hips buck forward and I hear Sherlock chuckle against my hip. Then he stands up. Bastard.

"Is that supposed to be an outfit?" he sneers at his older brother who smirks back unpleasantly.

"Well at least I'm wearing clothes." I step forward aware of my painful hard on and the fact that, on top of some of the things I have seen tonight, I cannot listen to a Holmes family argument.

"Can we just not? Please boys?" I ask. "What are you doing here Mycroft?" Mycroft smiles briefly at me, it's almost friendly.

"John, always so civilised. It's lovely to know what breeding we have in our armed forces. And I must say that your outfit is delightful." he looks at Sherlock and blinks slowly. Sherlock puts his hand on my arm, it possessive and I like it to be honest.

"Mycroft? Please. What are you doing here?" I repeat in slightly impatient tone, these two would annoy a saint when they get going. He looks back at me, dismissing Sherlock with a glance.

"I'm a member." he waves an arm to indicate the entire party.

"A member?" somehow Mycroft and bondage just doesn't square with me.

"Of the Rubber Ring, a catchy name don't you think?" he laughs. I frown.

"Is there any secret group you're not a member of Mycroft? Or are you into latex for queen and country?" Sherlock leans back against the wall with all the arrogance and insolence of a fifteen year old.

"I joined because of Simon." Mycroft's lips are in a thin line, he doesn't want to be telling us this. He shrugs. "Ask Lady Laura Ashton, she'll explain what I can't." He puts his coat on from over his arm, twisting his scarf in just the way that Sherlock does. "Right, must be off. Late meeting at Embankment." And he turns into the night and is gone. I turn to Sherlock.

"Lady Laura Ashton? Who's that? Some old biddy who gets her kicks here too?" Sherlock grins.

"No, that's Lola. One of the oldest aristocratic families in the country." I raise an eyebrow.

"Really? Wow. You meet all sorts here. Spies, criminals, landed gentry, consulting detectives..." Sherlock pulls me in and kisses me hard, there is no mistaking what is on his mind because it's pressed against me through his trousers.

"And ex soldiers, my personal favourite." He says in that dark tone. I laugh and return the kiss. There are more footsteps on the corridor and I grab Sherlock and hastily pull him into the next room, expecting it to be empty. I am wrong.

There is a big crowd in here, bigger than the other rooms and as we move through the throng of leather and latex clad bodies I begin to see why. On stage Lola and Rose are still 'performing'. Jesus.

The stage isn't much bigger than the ones in the other room but whereas the other 'acts' gave the impression of just being there for themselves and not really for the audience, Lola is lapping up the crowd's response. She smiles wickedly and arches her eyebrow as she sees Sherlock and I. She looks like she might wave but she has her hands full. Rose is doubled over a bench, like a slightly taller version of the one that goes with our kitchen table. Her skirt is pulled right up and Lola, bending a little to reach around her, is thrusting into her with a red glittery dildo. Rose's feet are pulled apart by a bar and her hands are cuffed to it too, the bench seems to take her weight as she leans her waist over it.

The incongruity of the woman who laughed and joked with me earlier and the positively terrifying Dominatrix on the stage is a bit of a shock to say the least. Both her hands are cupping Rose's breasts and I can see her roll the hard nipples between her fingers. Rose, her golden hair hanging over her face, is moaning and it sounds like she's having the time of her life. Lola's hand moves from breast and vanishes beneath the tight leather skirt and Rose's whimpering becomes louder, more insistent. I look up at Sherlock who is standing just behind me, his hip pressed against me and his chest against my back. His eyes are wide and his pupils dilated.

It's clear that, as Rose's cries become more desperate, Lola is nearing the point of no return. Her thrust becomes less rhythmic and more forceful, her eyes close and she leans back to ride deeper into her partner.

It feels so wrong to watch them and yet I cannot tear my eyes away. Around me everyone seems to feel the same. I look down at my feet and I feel Sherlock lean and whisper in my ear.

"They're doing this because they want to, John. They want you to watch. They get a buzz out of this, just like some people do it with the lights on." His voice thrills through me, I shake my head and I don't know if I'm exorcising my shyness or regretting what I am doing. But I look up.

Lola's beautiful face is flushed and she shouts out, it's obvious that she is completely high on the orgasm and the experience. Rose too is making wild, abandoned noises and, after a moment, Lola moves slowly and carefully back. As her partner moves away Rose's body slumps over the bench. Lola turns her back briefly and, when she turns back to attend to Rose, the dildo is gone.

I watch her go to Rose's cheek and kiss it; she strokes the long golden hair as her hand smoothes down the red leather skirt. She deftly unclips the bar from Rose's feet and hands and helps her stand up straight. They hug, it's like they just achieved some amazing goal or acted in a play, I suppose they did. The crowd cheer and some women in the corner chant 'Lola! Lola!' Lola turns and sweeps a low bow. Everyone laughs, then she gestures to Rose, in much the way a magician's assistant might towards the latest trick. The cheers get louder and Rose smiles. Lola leads her from the stage by her hand. They come straight towards us.

"Risky Sherlock, throwing him in at the deep end like that!" Lola observes my, probably stunned but excited, expression and kisses me on the cheek. Rose walks behind her and smiles at me, she looks radiant. I remember I'm supposed to be in charge and I give what I hope is a solemn nod to Sherlock.

"It was an accident. We weren't mean to be here but then here we were." He shrugs and looks at me. Lola looks at Rose and some unsaid communication passes between them.

"Are you ok John?" Rose asks softly. I nod. For some reason, despite their recent activity and my confused reaction to it, I still like them.

"Is there a bathroom?" I ask.

"Use the one at the end of the stairs," Lola points. "It's more likely to be being actually used as a bathroom." She grins and Sherlock laughs.

"I'll be back in a minute." I mumble and leave them.

I hardly notice the bodies I step over or what they are doing. I follow the direction of Lola's finger until I reach the door of the bathroom. The inside is just as lavish as the rest of the house and is also lit by candles. I lean on the sink and look at myself in the mirror.

I'm not sure I recognise the man I see looking back at me. The t-shirt with its studs and the flushed, glassy expression in my eyes are not familiar. I look alive, I realise with a start. Not shocked, or disgusted as I expected to feel, just exhilarated and excited. These people are living their lives to the fullest, regardless of what other people think or do. It's a sentiment I recognise from my time in Afghan, people who grab their life with both hands and squeeze every last drop out of it. People who live for intense adrenaline rushes and thrills. I shake my head again, this time in astonishment at the realisation dawning over me. I am not the prude I thought I was, not the traditional bloke, not, what was that word Sherlock used? I am not 'vanilla'. Fucking hell.

The whipping didn't excite me but the scene with the two men and even Lola and Rose certainly did. The spreader bar, the command, the trust strung out between them is singing in my blood and I feel lightheaded, drunk. I can't make it fit with the old John Watson. I decide not to try. I splash my face with cold water and it feels a bit like a baptism. I come up from the water a new person. A person determined to try it all out.

He is outside when I open the door, his face is concerned and he puts out his hand as though to check I am ok. I grab the mesh of his shirt and pull him to me fiercely

"Let's go home now Sherlock." I say to him in my own dark voice. He looks surprised but then he nods urgently. I kiss him, I pull him down so that his mouth meets mine and I taste him brutally, sweeping my tongue into his mouth. I feel him slacken against me and my other hand pulls the belt loop on his trousers and brings his body closer.

I break the kiss and keep my fingers in the waistband of his trousers; I lead him down the stairs and through the candlelit rooms. I look behind me briefly and I see that people are watching. A tremor of excitement passes through me. I take him outside and I stride to the kerb, I hold out my hand and a cab pulls over instantly. I smile at him and he smiles back.

I tell the cabbie where we're going and then kiss Sherlock again, running my hands over his chest. The mesh causes extra friction over his body and he moans and I think fuck the cab driver and I pinch him again, harder this time. The growl I get for this is so erotic that I can't help but follow my hands down his chest to cup his hard on through the leather. He groans. The soft material contrasts sharply with how stiff he is, the leather so fine that I can trace each contour, each line of him.

We're at 221b and I leave him to pay the driver. I can see he's struggling to maintain civil conversation and I enjoy the sight of him trying so hard to steady his breathing as he collects the change. I relish this hold over him, this power I have newly found over this remarkable, terrifying man. I open the door and I am waiting for him on the stairs.

He comes towards me and I push him back against the wall, using the extra height I have from the steps as leverage. I step up another two steps and I unzip my trousers and I take in his expression, shocked and excited. He stumbles up towards me and I push his shoulders down until he's kneeling a step down from me. I tug his face against me and pull down my shorts. He falls forward, his weight on his hands on the step below me. I don't speak I just grab his hair and rub myself along his cheek. His breath hisses out and it's all I can do not to just come right there. The power, the tremendous knowledge that he wants me, wants me to be like this with him, is overwhelming. He opens his mouth and I hold his jaw and push myself between his lips. He looks up at me, those laser blue eyes hot and burning. I push out a long breath and begin to thrust slowly.

We're on the stairs, he's sucking my cock and Mrs. Hudson might come out at any moment but I really don't care. Not the pretend not caring which I once would have tried on as a pose but really not caring. All my essence is concentrated on his mouth on my flesh. But I want to fuck him and I have plans for those bars which I know are still in the front room, hidden under the sofa.

I pull myself away abruptly and fasten my trousers. He looks up at me; his lips are red from the friction against my skin. He is panting and I can see how hard he is, I can see the tension stringing through his body.

"Upstairs Sherlock." Even my voice is different. I step back and let him pass by me. He's almost meek and this is about the most exciting thing I have ever done. My god.

I don't put the lights on and the only illumination is the streetlight which is outside the window. He stands in the centre of the room and I grab hold again of his belt loop and direct him to the sofa. I position him so he is kneeling by the edge, his arms leaning on the cushions. I reach around him and stroke him firmly though the leather, he begins to thrust forward and he is gasping. I can feel this is as much of a turn on for him on as it is for me. I flick open the buttons on his trouser and inch them down. I'm not getting very far and for a moment I feel lost, the connection, the power seems to ebb. Then I remember the drill sergeant.

"Take them off." It's a quiet command. He stands up and bends to remove his boots then he silently peels the leather from his body. He isn't wearing shorts and his pale skin is golden in the yellow streetlight. He is astonishingly beautiful like this and I tell him. I run my hand over his buttocks and tell him how great he looks like this. He moans my name. I push him down onto his knees again and reach under the sofa.

The bars are where he left them. As I pull them out I realise that I have nothing with which to attach them to his ankles and for a second I am thrown. Then I remember his boot laces, I'll have to be careful not to cut off his circulation but I realise I have more to control him with than just a few metres of string. I unlash the boots enjoying the sight of him bent over the sofa, his smooth body waiting for me.

I quickly tie a loose knot around each ankle and he stiffens slightly. I link the bar, nudging his legs apart so that he is spread wide. I lean over him as I unfasten my jeans.

"That's not a tight knot Sherlock so I want you to be a good boy and stay still. Is that clear?" He nods, sweet Jesus, he just nods. This is amazing. My body is in overdrive, I'm so turned on that every cell of my body feels alive with electricity and my brain is reeling from all this new information.

I step out of my jeans and realise I don't have the lube. I go to the bedroom, leaving him there, splayed wide for me. When I come back he hasn't even moved. I kneel behind him and rest my cock against his buttocks. He moans and pushes back. I reach around him and begin to stroke him. The bar cuts into my shins but I really couldn't care less. With my other hand I open him and guide myself inside. He slumps forward onto the cushion and his body opens wider to me. I am in him as far as I can go. We both breathe in short shallow breaths, the sensation overwhelming. I feel like I am possessing him, owning him. It's not just physical this is somehow deeper than we've ever gone before.

He moves back against me and I can't stop myself. I have one had on his back and one hand on his cock. I thrust and my hand moves to his hip, I hold him by the bone there, gripping as I push forward, he arches back against me. Feeling him around me so tight and yet so willing is too much, it's more than I can process and I feel the tightening of my muscles and the drowning ache in my groin.

"Sherlock come for me. Come hard for me." there is more command, more imperative in my voice and I listen to it as though it is someone else talking because I can't concentrate on anything but how he feels.

He shouts, growls wordlessly and he comes in my hand, a few more half thrusts, I have nowhere to go, no deeper I can be, and I spiral after him. I don't want to shut my eyes to this vision of him bent and vulnerable for me. He takes all I can give to him.

I lean away from him, careful not to hurt him as I pull away. My shins are marked from the bar and I unthread the flimsy knot from his ankles and pull away the bar. He is panting, leaning on his arms, his body filmed in a golden sheen of sweat. He turns his head to me, his eyes wide and his mouth wordless. I have never seen him so beautiful. I sense he wants to speak but neither of us know what the rules are anymore.

"Do you want to say something?" I ask him gently, he nods and takes a deep breath, seeming to search for the words.

"Bloody hell." He whispers and then he smiles. "I'll have to wear those again." He nods to where his leather trousers are thrown in a heap. I smile, relieved that what I have just done, the place I have just found inside me, has not fucked it all up forever. He turns and sits on the floor, wincing slightly as his over stretched muscles complain. I sit beside him and he leans his head on my shoulder.

"Was that ok?" I ask even though I am fairly sure it was. A slow grin spreads across his face.

"Yes John it was ok. It was wonderful." Neither of us speak until I realise he is shivering slightly. "Adrenaline come down," He says. "A cup of tea would help. And maybe a biscuit." I laugh at the role reversal as I go to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

We sit, nursing out tea. A thought occurs to me.

"Are we going to ask Lola about Mycroft?" he nods.

"She's invited us to lunch at her local pub on Monday." He sips his tea thoughtfully. "Better not wear the leathers eh?" I laugh and shake my head, a little embarrassed. He frowns. "I was teasing. That was great. Don't get nervous now I've just got you going!" he laughs again and I smile.

Once again I wasn't supposed to write all of this! Oh dear. So, was it ok? Will you let me know what you think now about...

Lola and Rose's show?

Mycroft's appearance

John's change of heart

The sex?

Be honest, am I still in character, this chapter ran away with me. must write some plot next time

Much love for The Baker St Irregulars! I am constantly amazed at the support of: PrincessNala (learn to photoshop), Peachsilk (trust me, I know what I'm doing...), Darmed (is that you outside my house with binoculars?), Clubba Bear (see you soon), Tasty- Kate(future breeding partner) , 2cajuman2(you still there?)Tanya Zsa Zsa (what a sweetie), Munchiees (you found it! Yay!) Aelfric's cat(Watson, to the Holmesmobile!), Nellyington (you're such a star) , mrs winny ( always a pleasure) and Despairandcupcakechild (love your reviews) and Mouserjb4 (I think I got lost in the zone) ! Love you!

Love as always to OHOB and Reggie cxx


	7. Lunch with Lola

I wake up to a banging on the door. It's loud and I don't even look at the clock as I stumble from my bed and head into the lounge. From Sherlock's room I hear snoring. I'm surprised he's slept through this noise, although I think what we can delicately refer to as the 'excitement' from yesterday has wiped us both out.

Bouncing off the door frame like a pinball and rubbing my eyes, I open the door and it's Lestrade. He looks bloody awful. His usually artfully scruffy hair looks not so artful today. His stubble is days old and his eyes are dark. I gesture for him to come in and blunder into the kitchen, scratching my head and trying to yawn something about coffee. Lestrade makes to sit on the sofa and then stands up sharply. Something in his actions registers with my sound asleep brain and it's with a start that I realise that not only did neither of us tidy Sherlock's leather trousers from the floor but we also didn't put the bars back under the sofa. Jesus.

I carry the coffees in, handing one to Lestrade and kicking the bars out of the way. It's blatantly obvious he's seen them and the tell tale trousers in a heap but we both pretend they aren't even there. We're so English. He coughs and rubs his chin and then sits down. I sit in the armchair and we look at each other.

"Well..." I say and smile in an embarrassed fashion.

"Well..." he replies and twists his mouth trying not to laugh. He doesn't hold it in for long. His guffaw is hard and genuinely amused. I can't help but join in. Soon we are just laughing and shaking our heads at each other. "Bloody hell John, you jammy bastard." He finally says and I nod. Yes, I am.

The door opens and Sherlock wanders between us on his way to the kitchen. I don't think his eyes are actually open and this is confirmed when he gets to the work surface and fumbles around for a mug like a person wearing a blindfold. His fingers then trace along the counter until they reach the coffee machine, flicking away slightly as they contact the hot jug. Then he pours with unerring accuracy and adds milk and four sugars. He turns back to us and walks to the sofa. Only then does he open his eyes.

"Morning." He sounds a little hoarse and he nods to Lestrade as though he expected him to be there.

"Did you have your eyes shut then?" I ask incredulously. He nods again.

"Always useful to know the layout in the dark." Another experiment, I raise my eyebrows to Lestrade who grins back at me.

"These yours?" he nudges the leather trousers with his foot. Sherlock looks over like we're discussing a discarded newspaper.

"Oh. Yes. thanks." He picks them up, shakes them out and drapes them over a chair. Then he leans back on the sofa and crosses his legs, he winces and then winks at me. Lestrade shakes his head at me again as though to repeat his earlier phrase about my luck. I nod again, maybe a little smugly.

Sherlock sips his coffee, pulls a face and goes back into the kitchen where he administers two more sugars to his mug.

"So, everything alright then?" he asks Lestrade as hit sits back down beside him. Lestrade sits forward, elbows on his knees and rubs his eyes with his palms. He's a picture of worn out.

"Not really." He sighs, "Gus Freiman left the country last night." Sherlock sits forward, slopping his coffee onto the floor but not even seeming to notice. He glances at me. Lestrade spots his. "What? What do you know?"

"Not much. I've got some theories which I'll be happier sharing once we've met up with someone this afternoon. John? phone." I pass him the mobile and he does that super quick texting thing and looks up. Lestrade looks frustrated, I don't blame him. Sherlock leans over and pats him on the knee.

"I promise I'll tell you anything I can tomorrow morning. Is that better?" Lestrade shrugs grumpily and Sherlock grins and gets up. "Right," he rubs his long hands together. "Shower! John? Coming?"

I look at Sherlock who is beaming like an idiot. I look at Lestrade who looks even more fed up than he did when he got here. I stand up.

"Yep. Coming." I say in my best decisive voice, I feel the old John Watson shudder. Wimp.

"Yeah well, I'd better get off anyway. Don't think I want to stay and listen to ... well. Yeah anyway." Lestrade gets up and finishes his coffee. Sherlock gives him a perky wave and goes to the bathroom we hear the shower turn on. His hand on the door Lestrade turns to me.

"You jammy bastard John Watson," he grins ruefully. I nod apologetically and close the door behind him.

Sherlock's in the shower when I get to the bathroom. He's humming to himself and standing perfectly still with his eyes closed under the jet of water. I watch him for a moment, how the water makes him shine in the daylight coming through the frosted window. The light wraps itself around him and highlights the contours and shadows of the dips and curves of his hip bones, his collar bones. His hair is longer, weighed down by the water. The curls hang limply against his neck and cheek. He has a slightly purple bruise on his hip and I realise with a blink that this is probably from my hand. When I look at him again he is watching me, those pale eyes alert and inquisitive. His gaze pans down his body to where the shadow is forming on his hipbone in the shape of a hand. He grins.

"Worth the wound," he smiles. I frown. "The experience was worth the bruise." I blush a little trying to remind my blood that I am not going to be scared of this anymore. Then I nod and start to take off my pyjamas.

"Good." I say stepping into the shower beside him. "I'm very happy you feel that way because I've not finished with you yet." He laughs and I see his stomach muscles tighten from the humour and the excitement of what I have promised him.

"I think the correct use of popular terminology at this point would be 'bring it on' Dr Watson," he grins broadly.

"So, apart from the education, what did we get out of that party?" I ask him later as we get dressed. I've been wondering if we wasted our time last night, well, in regards to Simon Eccles anyway. He looks up from fastening his trousers, his body is still damp and it's one of those moments when my brain goes numb just looking at him.

"What did we get?" he frowns and then a dawning crosses his face. "Oh John, John, you really don't know do you?" he grins and I shake my head.

"Well," he pulls his shirt on over his shoulders and then begins to button, "one is that there might be some connection between Eccles and Freiman, it seems too coincidental to be impossible. Two, Laura's going to know everyone at that club and we're seeing her for lunch today so she'll prove invaluable." Lunch today? I think back to his immediate text once he knew Freiman was off the agenda for today, right then. He's combing his fingers through his hair and straightening his collar.

"Three, that if my brother was there then this might have some wider European ramifications so that might not exclude Lestrade's case." he frowns. "A fair judgement would you say?" I suppose so although I hadn't considered all of these deductions.

"We didn't ask any questions, make enquiries."I begin but the look on his face stops me dead.

"John, how far do you think we would have got with an elite, clandestine club for people into kink if we'd have gone in and started asking questions? Sometimes the naivety is sweet," he kisses me lightly on the mouth and pulls back to look me in the eye, "but decidedly silly." I purse my lips.

"Thanks." I say flatly. He smiles and pats me on the arse as he goes into the lounge. God. Who's supposed to be in charge here?

So we're getting out of a cab outside a Mayfair pub I recognise from Simon Eccles' bank statements. It's a bit down the road from the one owned by Madonna I think, vaguely remembering Harry badgering me to go with her when she first moved to London. I imagine it's not the sort of place I feel at home but I suppose we are meeting aristocracy.

The building has those dark green tiles and the etched windows that people expect from English pubs and is swathed in ivy. A sign swings above the door 'The Ashton Arms'. Underneath is a depiction of a shield with three ravens, a star and a set of medieval stocks. She must be having a laugh, I smile to myself. It's clear Lady Laura owns the pub and even if it wasn't obvious from the outside it certainly is once we get inside.

She's behind the bar, wearing a man's white shirt tied at the waist. Her severe hair of last night is gone and it's in a loose bun on the back of her head, skewered in place with a black chopstick. She looks up from the glass of wine she's pouring and grins.

"Hello boys! What are you having?" I realise she isn't working as there are two barmen also behind the bar with her. One is polishing glasses and the other ringing up a bill for a customer. The place is quiet this early on a Sunday but from the feel of the place they're not expecting it to stay that way for long.

Sherlock is at the bar and leans over and looks at the taps.

"Guinness for John, unless you have Murphy's..." I look at him in amazement, how did he know I prefer Murphy's? He looks at me blankly. "What? You always wince at the first three drinks of Guinness by which I deduced that you find it too bitter, Murphy's is far sweeter. The fact that you still ask for Guinness indicates you prefer stout to other beers so I decided you were a Murphy's drinker who drinks Guinness if he can't get his preferred pint." He is astonishing, have I said that? I nod and smile at Laura who is smiling too, her face a picture of nostalgic amusement.

"He doesn't change does he?" she laughs. "And what can I get you Sherlock?" he purses his lips. I've got to admit I have no idea what his drink of choice would be.

"A pint of Sambrook's Wandle, please Laura." I never took him for a real ale drinker but I'm guessing he went to some nice school in the country so maybe that's where he picked up the taste. I can just see him as a younger man, broodily nursing his pint in a country pub, a bit Byronic. I decide to ask him later.

Laura pours the Wandle and passes me the Murphy's which she was proud to show me that they had on tap. She picks up the glass of wine for herself and pours another one, I'm presuming for Rose, and we follow her as she comes from behind the bar and walks across the dark wood floor. She's wearing a pair of tight blue jeans and a pair of biker boots. The outfit is pretty much civilian but she still has an air of Dominatrix about her. She leads us to a booth at the back of the pub. The frosted glass, engraved with the Ashton Arms and the red leather benches have this great intimate feel.

Rose is there, looking much more casual and comfortable in her green v neck jumper and her jeans that she did in that corset and red leather skirt. I look at the other customers at the bar; the place is beginning to fill up. I wonder if they have any idea what we were up to last night, it makes me smile.

"Hi John, hi Sherlock." Rose takes her glass and a kiss on the cheek from Laura. It's strange, I realise, to hear her speak without permission and to see Laura doing things for her. Rose catches my expression and chuckles. "We don't play all the time John." I laugh an embarrassed laugh and she smiles warmly. Laura shuffles along the bench beside me and Sherlock gets in next to Rose.

"We did though didn't we? For about a fortnight when we first met." She smiles at the memory. "That was fun. It was like a holiday from real life." Rose is smiling too and they just look like any couple reminiscing, maybe about a honeymoon. I blink; it's hard to remember my initial prejudices and misgivings about people like them. Laura turns to Sherlock.

"Have fun last night? I'd deduce from the ginger way you sat down that maybe you had a bit more fun once you got home...hang on..." her eyebrows raise and Sherlock beams. Laura slips from her seat and ducks under the table. What is she doing? I look, craning my neck to see her, and she's lifting Sherlock's trouser legs and inspecting his ankles. She appears from under the table with a triumphant grin.

"Spreaders! High five John!" she slaps my hand in an exuberant fashion and we all laugh. She raises an eyebrow at Sherlock. "Nice one." She says, there's something tomboyish and yet flirty about her. It's hard not to like her a lot.

Sherlock is laughing; it's obvious he enjoys Laura's impersonation of his detective skills.

"Very good. It's nice to know that I taught you something Laura." She grins.

"Not as much as I taught you Sherlock." She cocks her head and winks and we all laugh. Sherlock nods as though he's conceding a point.

"So, John how was the foray into the mad, bad world of BDSM?" says Rose touching my hand. I frown, it's not a conversation I would normally have. I don't discuss sex with anyone, I never have. But then I rethink. Yes, what Sherlock and I have is personal and intimate but it's not a secret, at least not to these two. I can say as much or as little as I like.

"Good. I enjoyed it. Maybe next time I might want to reverse the roles." Laura laughs and Sherlock and Rose both beam at each other.

"Ooh lucky Sherlock! A switch! Bloody marvellous!" Laura laughs. A switch? I frown, unsure of the terminology. She sees my expression. "Well, not everyone is a Top or a bottom John; some people like to switch it around." I nod, I can see the appeal. Laura beams wider.

"Ok so I presume we're not here just to talk about spreader bars, although if you boys need some pointers..."

"Or some help?" laughs Rose. Sherlock shakes his head.

"A lovely offer ladies but I think we're managing just fine for now. Actually I wanted to talk to you about some of the clientele last night." Laura leans forward and threads her fingers.

"Oh? Like who? That bloke from the ministry who comes along? Or that member of the royal family who pops in now and again?" bloke from the ministry? Does she mean Mycroft?

"I'd like to know about Simon Eccles first." Sherlock steeples his fingers, I drink my pint.

"Simon? Where is Simon? No one's seen him for ages... is that what you're investigating Sherlock?" Laura's eyes widen and Rose puts her hand to her mouth. "Oh god, what's happened to him?"

"We don't know but that why we're here. What do you know about him? You seem to be close?"

"Yes, we are..." Laura nods and Rose does too. They exchange a look of concern. "We sometimes play with Simon and his boyfriend."

"Boyfriend?" Sherlock is interested now; his eyes are completely focussed on Laura. She doesn't flinch. She looks right back at him.

"Yes, his partner? They've been together for ages I think. They've been coming to the Rubber Ring for a good while. I thought I saw you speaking to him last night." Laura says thoughtfully.

"And this man was there last night? And they're play partners?" Laura nods.

"Yes, we've played with them, well, the boyfriend watches but he supplied the place for the kidnap scene." Before I can register any surprise or ask what she means Sherlock pounces on the comment.

"Kidnap scene? What do you mean?" it's Rose that answers.

"I had a kidnap fantasy," she looks at me and explains as Sherlock just nods. "Not to be really kidnapped John, just a scene I always wanted to play. Laura and I tried it once but..." Laura starts laughing and Rose is grinning.

"I drove up behind her, got out of the Audi and grabbed her and a policeman came round the corner!" they are giggling now. Sherlock smiles but his eyes don't, he's scented something. "Well I couldn't bundle her into the car could I? Member of the aristocracy kidnapping girls? The papers would have a field day!"Laura is still laughing. "Anyway we were telling Simon and he said his partner might have somewhere we could do things in a little more privacy with the right...ambience." they look at each other and grin. It was obviously a fun time.

"So anyway Simon's boyfriend had a place and he let us use it. It was ok, well kitted out. A bit chintzy though." she wrinkles her nose. Chintzy? Something begins to click. Chintzy?

"Like a guest house?" I ask leaning forward. They look at me like I've gone mad.

"Yes! I thought just that. Even though it turned out to be quite a big house on the outside. It was a bit strange actually," she grins. "It had a TV system that only played..."

"Westerns." Sherlock and I say this word together and both women look at us in frank astonishment.

"You've been there?" I nod.

"My kidnap scene was significantly different than yours though I think." Rose doesn't ask and neither does Laura. Both look serious. Sherlock nods, I can almost hear him processing this information.

We all drink in silence for a minute or two. It gives me time to think. Mycroft has a lover called Simon. Bloody hell. More things run in the family than just a massive intellect and sibling rivalry. I look at Sherlock, his eyes are closed. And Mycroft's into this stuff too. And they pretended to kidnap Rose. It's all so bizarre and I can feel these thoughts whirling around my head like a sandstorm and I just can't make it stop.

"Has Simon been into kidnap play for long?" Sherlock's voice betrays nothing of what he's thinking.

"Ages I think. He and M, that's what he called his partner, we think it's a Bond joke." Sherlock frowns; does he know who Bond is? "Simon was really into it, not sure about M though. He was always suggesting other ideas; he had some seriously inventive scenes didn't he?" Rose nods and grins. I don't think I want to know. Mycroft's intellect turned to kinky sex? Frightening.

"Do you know the man with the scar who was there last night?" Sherlock finishes his drink and his glance slides to me.

"I'll get a round in," I say getting my wallet out but Laura's waves me to sit down.

"No it's fine, Ade?" she shouts to a guy at the bar, he looks like a regular. "Tell Steve we want the same again will you? You're a diamond!" the man at the bar smiles and waves over the barman. She turns back to Sherlock.

"Man with a scar? That foreign bloke? I don't know him, he's only be coming a little while. I think Simon knew him though." Sherlock nods like it all makes sense. Does it?

"Thank you Laura. I really appreciate you breaking confidence like this."

"Well, we're old friends and I'm worried about Simon." Laura nods seriously.

"So am I." Sherlock's face is grim. The drinks come and there's silence again. Sherlock breaks the silence. It's obvious he wants to change the subject.

"Wonderful show last night girls. Really an eye opener eh John?" they giggle. It's weird because, now he's mentioned it; I remember that I saw these women having sex on stage last night, in front of a crowd of maybe twenty other people. Until now this hadn't really occurred to me. Part of me is proud of being so unmuggle and part of me finds this concerning.

"I was surprised you were there really," says Rose looking at me and smiling gently. "I don't suppose it was a gentle introduction to the whole scene was it?" I shake my head.

"Well, no. It wasn't but you were erm... very good." I know that I'm being hopeless but really, what does one say to commend two women who have fucked with dildos in front of you? I can't say the situations ever occurred before.

"Thanks." Laura nods. "I think we were untidy at the start but of course, you were only in there for the end." She sounds like she's discussing a tennis match and is annoyed with her performance.

"Sorry, that was my fault. I think I was just out of the zone for a minute." Rose looks at Laura who shakes her head and puts out her hand.

"No, no darling. My fault entirely. I should have known you weren't quite there yet." Once again I'm impressed by their caring and love of one another.

The next hour or so passes in pleasant conversation and excellent bar food. Laura's pub has a brilliant chef and we eat like kings. The conversation is lighter and we talk about the weather, bad television and I ask about how the three of them met.

"I was in a club with an acquaintance and Laura came in with Rose..."

"An acquaintance!" Laura snorts. "I don't think he'd be happy to hear you say that!" Sherlock pulls a face which obviously means he'd like her to shut up. I am intrigued.

"Who's this?" I ask and Laura grins and sips her drink.

"The person Sherlock decided to do his experiments with." She's grinning and Sherlock's eyebrows are raised.

"Oh?" I ask.

"Andrew, yes. Well he was very useful, very... amenable to the experiments I wanted to undertake." Laura and Rose are hysterically laughing now at Sherlock's description.

"Very amenable." Rose is laughing. "Until you told him that you'd got your conclusions and the experiment was over." Sherlock frowns.

"Yes. That was awkward wasn't it? I wonder what happened to him?"

"Well, he phoned _us _for about four months but we refused to tell him where you were living." Laura is still laughing.

"Did he? Did he really?"Sherlock is intrigued in a scientific sort of way.

"Yes and he waited outside my work for me twice and begged me to tell you he still loved you." Rose looks like she's telling him off. Sherlock raises one dark eyebrow.

"_Still_ loved me? What? Still? What does that mean? I don't recall him ever..." he trails off, thinking, "not that I would really have been listening... I mean, it was just experimentation. I told him that." He looks at us earnestly. "I told him that." Laura and Rose shake their heads at the madness that is Sherlock Holmes. I'm inclined to agree. Suddenly that voice of doubt, of insecurity which I have been suppressing so successfully rears its head. Before I can think properly I ask the question.

"Is this an experiment Sherlock? Is that what this is?" my tone is sharp, Laura and Rose stop laughing. Sherlock stares at me like I've just done something unfathomably stupid.

"No John." He is frowning and intense now. "No, not at all. I love you, I've said that. I really don't understand why..." he shakes his head a little, confused.

Laura is looking at us both with a strange expression on her face.

"Because you're hard to believe Sherlock, that's why. Because your head is so far in the clouds that we mere mortals wonder what on earth you might see in us." I nod at her, thankful for the support. Sherlock looks from one of us to the other, we can see him calculating, assessing, turning the problem over.

"But... John's... well..." he shakes his head and looks at me again. He looks a bit lost, like what he's seeing is so obvious that we must all be mad to be oblivious to it. "He's... everything. God how boring would life be without you John!" his last words come out of his mouth and it's like the thought has just occurred to him. "You," he looks at me seriously, "you are not an experiment. You are real life." Rose sighs and we all look at her.

"Well," she shrugs, "it's so nice to hear him say that. He's always been so... tight assed and English." Sherlock snorts and Laura laughs and I sit there and the world seems suddenly warmer.

In the cab on the way back Sherlock is looking at me.

"What?" I ask self consciously.

"Do you really not believe how I feel John?" I sigh and squirm.

"Well I do when you say it. But you know, sometimes it's hard to keep hold of." He nods.

"It's the same here." I frown, is it? "Yes of course it is, "he answers my silent question. "Most people I meet think I'm a freak, a madman. I can't imagine that they'd want to be in a relationship with me. But you... and you're so...normal. No, don't be offended it's a compliment. Sometimes I'd like to know what it's like to not be me, not make the connections I make and you allow me that John. You allow me that glimpse into the real world, the one most people live in. I love you for it. But it's not the only reason..." I sit there, stunned into silence. The phone rings and I pass it to him, sometimes I'm just a medically qualified handbag I think.

"Yes? Oh. Hello. Yes I have. Yes I will. Not now. Tomorrow. There's no rush. Don't shout. Yes. There's no need to be so...Yes I do understand...but, no I won't. Right. Bye then." he looks at me.

"Lestrade." I nod. "Said we'll see him tomorrow." He looks at the phone in an exasperated fashion. "I don't think he was very happy."

"No," I shake my head, "no. I don't think so either. Not very." Sherlock shrugs and looks out of the window.

"John?"

"Hmm?" I look over, he isn't looking at me.

"When I said I loved you just then?"

"Yes?"

"And I said being normal wasn't the only reason for those feelings?" I can see his expression in the window and his face is blank.

"Hmm? Yes?"

"You didn't ask me about the other reasons." He's looking at my reflection through the glass of the window as London streams past us.

"No. No I don't suppose I did." Where's he going with this?

"Do you want to know?"He's still watching me but through the medium of the glass.

"Er. Yeah. I suppose. Yeah, yeah, I do." He turns to me and his face is split by that shark grin. I begin to get a bad feeling about this.

"I think one of my reasons is how you sound when you come." I close my eyes. Bastard. He knows what this does to me. I can already feel the pulse in my neck. "But I think we should go home so I can test my theory." He turns back to the window, mission accomplished. "After all a good scientist checks more than once." Jesus.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Ok so this was written despite the fact I have so much work to do I am under an exam results avalanche. Hope you don't think it suffered for it. Please let me know. If you're going to favourite me or the fic will you please send a review too? I hate not knowing why you favourite, it's like the biggest tease in the world! Argh

But now, THESE lovely people... The Baker St Irregulars, are no slouches in the review stakes! I wouldn't have the impetus to make the time to write, the involvement in the characters and the commitment to the plot without: PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Darmed , Clubba Bear ,Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 and new irregulars Tillififf and Harpyquin ! You all make me a happy, happy writer. Thank you!

As always I love my OHOB and my Reggie. cx


	8. Sherlock's Plan

"We're going to have to persuade Laura to throw a party. Shouldn't be too difficult." He says this as he places some gentle kisses along my spine, working his way down my body. He hasn't stopped talking since we got in, his hands unbuttoning and taking off his own clothes and then, when he was stark naked, mine. I've stopped listening to the words but his voice thrills through me, embedding itself in my bones I am sure.

"Yes, she can throw a party at Ashton House, then we invite everyone, making sure Freiman hears about it and..." he stops just above my buttocks and grazes his teeth along me. I moan and my hips wriggle involuntarily, he chuckles. "And then we have to get you talking to him..." hang on, something about what he just said registers through the desire filled haze in my brain. Me?

I lift my head and look backwards at him. I'm lying face down on the bed and he's kneeling over me, bent over, his face at the bottom of my back. He looks up at me.

"Yes John, you are. Unless you want to be the one getting kidnapped." I pull what I hope is an expression of horror but it's hard to be horrified when he's trailing his lips down my inner thigh, using those long fingers to move my legs apart to gain access to the tender skin. I moan again, is this a ploy? Of course it bloody is.

"Kidnapped?" I try to say although the last syllable is sort of gasped out because his wet tongue has just traced its way right along the inside of my leg to my balls. He flicks his tongue over them, experimentally, I buck and twist and he holds me still.

"Do behave John, this is an interesting challenge I have discovered here. Do you think you could come from me just doing this?" He licks me again and this time I feel his wet finger penetrating me. The burning pleasure seeps into my brain and I have no idea what I'm supposed to say. The finger stops its progress and I fight for breath. "Well, do you?" another lick.

"Erm... ah... well, probably. Yes, yes... oh god, probably." I try to nod into the pillow, panting as the finger moves in and out of me slowly.

"Excellent. So," a lick, a push, "yes, I'll be kidnapped, won't be the first time," a lick, a wet, flat tongue lick, that sets me on fire and a pulling out of the finger. Then two fingers, I thrust against the bed. "No cheating John."

"But... I can't... I want... oh my god." Three fingers and now he sucks my testicles into his mouth. I notice vaguely that, when in extreme arousal my vocabulary gets medical. "Ah...Sherlock? Oh god..." he pulls his mouth away.

"Is this a question about my plan or are you going to come?" he sounds interested, like I'm on a Petri dish at Bart's lab. Damn him. He's going to make me answer him too.

"I'm... Jesus, just don't stop! Sherlock Holmes, you utter bastard." He chuckles and resumes the exquisite torture of the sucking and the fingers. I can't help it, I'm going to come and he hasn't even touched my cock. Utter bastard. I feel the pressure building in my lower stomach, my groin. It swells and becomes unbearable, stringing me out like elastic. There's not enough friction against the bed and I try so hard to wriggle against it, to get some meagre crumb of satisfaction that he relents and I feel his hand snake underneath me, wrapping his long fingers around my hard length. He squeezes. Twice. It's all it takes. God, I am so easy.

He pulls away from me gently and kisses back the length of my spine until he lies over me. He is hard and he presses himself against me and, his hands at either side of my head, rubs himself along the crease of my buttocks. Even though I am still sailing on the warm waters of my last orgasm it feels great. I turn my head to the side and look up at him. His eyes are closed, he's concentrating. His mouth is slightly open and his hair falls over his cheekbones. He bites his top lip, the perfect contours of his too sharp cupid's bow mouth distorted by the pleasure he is feeling. God he is beautiful.

I watch as the flush of blood creeps up over his pale chest, his breathing becomes erratic and desperate. He opens his eyes and sees me looking. Still panting, the occasional grunt from his lips, he smiles at me, a slow smile. Jesus. Then he closes his eyes again.

"Don't stop watching me John," he whispers, my name almost moaned out. "Ah... god, almost, almost." His eyes open again, he bends his head to mine and I can see his face, flushed and shining with exertion. I watch him come. His eyes roll back slightly though still open, his chest heaves and his mouth opens, he gasps for air.

"Oh. Oh god. John, John." I watch him gasp out my name. My name. His body shudders and I feel the sticky, warm result of his efforts across my skin. He collapses on me, his face touching mine. We are nose to nose.

"That was good." He says, eyes closed and broadly smiling.

"Mmmm." I agree and he laughs, I feel his ribs in my back. We lie there and neither of us moves or speaks. He rubs his toes along the bottom of my foot. It's comforting and familiar, I like it.

I am processing what he said, trying to slot his conversation back into words that make sense. Hang on...

"You're going to be kidnapped? You've done it before? What the hell...?" he doesn't open his eyes.

"Yes, twice. Well, twice as the kidnapper and twice as the... victim." He smiles a lazy smile, eyes still closed. I blink. Twice? Well it makes sense.

"Who... kidnapped you?" this just sounds wrong. His grin gets wider.

"Andrew the first time, Laura and Rose the second." He opens one eye. "They were better. Female kidnappers, an exhilarating twist." Ok, I have two things to deal with here. The first is the fact that my body thinks that the idea of Laura and Rose forcing Sherlock into things is quite a turn on. I know it was a game, no one got hurt but still, they forced him. And that idea gets me hard. And that in turn shocks me. It's all very well to be into a bit of tying up but, bloody hell. But it does, really hard, Jesus.

The second, more worrying concern is that I have been kidnapped, for real, twice. And neither of them were the stuff fantasies are made of, thank you. They are both in the top five of terrible things which have happened to John Watson. It seems an insult, a mockery, that some people do this for kicks.

"You have a problem here don't you?" both his eyes are open and locked right on mine. "It makes sense John, I get it. These things have happened to you in a very real sense. But this is a game. It's like playing cops and robbers; no one's belittling the authentic experience." I close my eyes and think about what he's said. I feel him breathing on my face. I try to imagine how it would feel if he blindfolded me and put me in a room and did dreadful things to me as a game. I am beginning to scare myself.

"Ok," I take a deep breath and let it all out until my lungs are empty. It's something I used to do in the army and I imagine it is releasing all the fear as the air is squeezed out of me. "Ok." I open my eyes.

He is looking at me and it's an expression I've not seen before. A mixture of love and pride and excitement. He kisses me gently, his lips press against mine and they are warm and soft.

"You're just so stimulating John." he grins and gets up off the bed, off me. My body feels cold in his absence. He pads out of the room and I turn onto my side. He comes back with the phone.

"Laura? Hi, yes, yes. Thanks. I have a favour to ask. No, no, not that." He laughs and I can hear Laura laughing too. I smile, I can imagine the conversation. "How'd you feel about throwing a party?" he pauses and smiles again.

"Yes, _that_ sort of party. Maybe one with a kidnap theme?" There is a squealing from the phone and he laughs. "Me. Yes, you get to join in. When? Erm... Wednesday? Is that too soon?" he nods. "Great, let everyone know. Perfect. You're a doll Laura. I know, I know. Thank you..." he pauses and grins at me, "Mistress." There is laughter from the phone and he disconnects the call.

"Sorted." He says and throws himself down on the bed. "Laura's more than happy to help out. She's got some new toys she wants to try. She wants to know if you want to go over before Wednesday evening and she can 'thrash it out with you', her words." I laugh; I can imagine her saying it.

"Tea?" he gets up and puts the dressing gown on and ties the belt. I nod and he goes to the kitchen.

I fold my hands behind my head. I'm going to kidnap Sherlock. With Laura and Rose. How does that work? I have no idea but it excites the hell out of me. Oh dear.

It's Monday and I'm meeting Laura for lunch at the pub again. Sherlock's gone off to meet someone who might be able to help him with his Freiman theory, whatever that is, and I'm not sure what to expect of the meeting. I've worried about it all the way over here. What will this kidnapping entail? Where are we going to do it? How can it be part of a party and then the big question, how involved are Laura and Rose planning to be? In the end I had to stop thinking and decide I would just have to be completely upfront with Laura. Luckily that's not hard.

"So, I imagine you've got lots of questions." Laura is wiping her lips with her napkin. We've made small talk over the foccacia sandwiches and I guess it's time to get to business. I nod and finish chewing.

"Yes. Loads. The first one being, how involved are you and Rose hoping to be in the sex part of this plan? The second being, are people going to expect to watch us? Because I'm not comfortable with either of those options." I realise I might sound bullish and I pull a face and apologise. "Sorry. Laura but I just thought you'd appreciate me being straight forward." She grins and drinks her wine.

"Of course, it's always best and, to be honest, Rose and I had the same conversation last night after Sherlock rang. We both thought you wouldn't want to share and we completely understand." I sip my Murphy's and try not to look too relieved; I don't want to be rude. How mad is this? I don't want to be rude about not wanting to share my lover with the women who helping me in his mock kidnapping. I'm not sure I believe this. Laura continues.

"As for the actual scene I think it's perfectly ok for it to happen in a closed room, that will mean no one watching, Rose and I can leave if you like? Then it'll just be the two of you. Just because it's a party doesn't mean everyone is happy with an audience." Ok, this is good.

"You see, Laura, I have no idea how this thing works, I mean, it turns me on thinking about pretending to kidnap Sherlock," I shake my head at my own words. "But I'm not sure how I do it or even if I can keep up that act for long. Won't I laugh?" Laura grins; it's obviously a common question.

"I'll tell you something John, if you promise not to tell anyone else."I nod and raise my eyebrows. "I feel like that every time I put on Mistress Lola." I cock my head at the name; I had presumed Lola was just her nickname.

"You see, that's just it. The new name makes me a different woman. Lola isn't me; she dresses differently and expects different things from people than I do." I nod, starting to get it a little.

"Like acting?" I ask. She nods again.

"Yes! I have a playlist on the iPod I use for when I'm getting ready, changing into her. I have a scent I only wear as Lola and I still get nervous and I've been doing this for ten years." This makes me feel better; somehow listening to her this idea doesn't seem so daunting.

"You put yourself out there as a Dom, even more than the sub in some respect. You say 'I want this' and you have to get rid of your self doubt and insecurity. I used to worry that a sub would laugh at me, but they don't."

"That's how I feel, won't Sherlock just think I'm ridiculous?" she shakes her head and grins.

"No he won't because he _wants_ you to be that person. He wants to believe in the character you're building so he will believe. Does that make sense?"

"So his belief feeds mine? Because he wants to see me like that means I can _be_ like that?"

"Yes, exactly. Perfect. Think back to what you have done with him so far. Did he laugh? Or was he so lust clouded that he just complied, agreed with your Dom persona?" I nod thoughtfully. I didn't even think about being laughed at the night of the party, I knew he wanted me and that gave me the confidence I needed.

"So, how do we kidnap him? And what sort of things do you do once you've got them?" It's something I've wondered. Both times I have been kidnapped it's been for a reason. I was a hostage, a pawn to stop people interfering or a bargaining chip in a bigger game. I can't imagine what I would be kidnapping Sherlock for? Laura grins and downs her drink.

"In a minute we'll go to the house and I can show you where and how. But your second question's the interesting one." She waves Steve the barman over and he brings another round.

"John, it can be anything you want. Sometimes when Rose and I play this scene I pick some imaginary secret she can't possibly know to torture her with." I flinch at her choice of words. She puts her hand on mine. "Sorry, Sherlock mentioned that you'd been through some pretty raw stuff. I have to say it impresses the hell out of me that you want to give this a try. Remember it's just a game. Kids play soldiers, it doesn't mean they want to kill someone or be killed." She drinks her drink and looks away, giving me a moment to think about what she has said. I realise that, to experience this, I have to divorce some words from the usual resonance that they have for me. Torture is one of them. I nod and she carries on.

"So, you could do that, make up some impossible question that he can't answer and then do what you like with him when he doesn't get it right." She beams and I can't help but laugh at her glee. "Or you could be the sort of kidnapper who's stalked him for months and just wants him to your wicked self." I nod, this sounds better, less real and more like fun. Distanced from my own experience.

"I think that sounds better." I say slowly, Laura nods and pats my hand again.

"Good John, because you need to feel comfortable with the plan. And I think the less acting the better for you, eh? Stalker is much easier than Nazi." We both laugh as Steve comes to collect our glasses and hears only the last few words of our conversation. He just shakes his head.

It turns out to be a short walk from the pub to Laura's house. It's bloody enormous. This white stucco Georgian mansion in a street of similar, but not so large mansions. She looks at my face as we come up the drive to the white pillars which flank the front door and shrugs. Who has a drive in London these days? It looks like it was made for horses and carriages.

"I know, don't hate me. Been in the family for years. We have another house, a great pile in the country, totally run down but Rose and I are project managing the tidying up of the old girl." She opens the wide, black front door and the hall is as marbled and grand as the outside. It's a bit like the interior of the British Museum.

A woman, who I presume is some kind of personal assistant, comes out and takes our coats. She's a few years older that Laura, maybe thirty five and she has red hair coiled in a knot on her head. She looks sophisticated in a grey suit but her smile is warm and friendly.

"Dickinson, this is Dr John Watson. He's a friend of Sherlock's." Dickinson's smile gets wider.

"How is he?" she asks and her accent is soft and Northern.

"Good," I answer," he's fine. Busy." she nods as if she understands what I mean.

"Sherlock helped Dickinson out a while ago when her brother got into a bit of a pickle didn't he, D?" Dickinson nods and grins. I decide not to ask.

Laura leads us to a small door at the back of the hall, almost under the sweeping staircase. If you didn't know it was there you wouldn't see it. Behind it steps wind down into the foundations of the house.

"We've no idea what these were used for. Daddy converted some of it to an underground car park but he's in France now with wife number three so he's left it pretty much to me." She turns and flicks the light on; I can see the stairs twist down. "So I've made some alterations." She grins, obviously excited to be showing off her handiwork.

At the bottom of the stairs there are two doors, she flings one open. It leads to a pretty standard car park. Concrete and breezeblocks. There a couple of nice cars there and I recognise the Audi which Laura has spoken of before. She shuts the door.

"So you can nab him there, he can be parking the car or waiting for someone or something." I hadn't even thought of this and I look at her with frank admiration. She touches my arm. "Darling, I've done this before. Your friend M let us borrow his house before I had this all built." At the mention of Mycroft I feel a bit uncomfortable again. Come on, John.

She opens the other door and it's a dark red corridor with various rooms leading off from it. Some have windows and some are only doors. The corridor seems to open onto a wide space. I follow her down, glancing through the windows. Some rooms have beds and looks like fancy, plush bedrooms, all red and gold decor. Some are painted black and have benches like the ones at Ms Brandon's and on the walls are various things of which I don't want to guess the uses. In one the centrepiece is a set of stocks. I stop and Laura looks and laughs.

"Birthday present from Rose. What a darling eh? Of course, she's the one who gets the benefit!" I laugh, thinking how it's like men buying their girlfriends sexy underwear. I shake my head.

We come to the end of the corridor and the space widens out. Laura turns a dial in the wall and the room is softly illuminated. The walls here are polished rock and the ceiling is roughly domed. The whole place resembles an Aladdin's cave. Velvet and silk are the main materials of the large cushions strewn on the floor. There are a number of low sofas and the ceiling is covered in silk swathes of jewel coloured shades. The light here comes from all the Turkish lamps hanging from the ceiling. The place has a magical, otherworldly feel.

"The lamps were already here so I had them renovated and fitted for electricity. It seems this was a sort of party room in Victorian times. We found lots of rotted drapery and cushions and we thought it'd be fun to do it all again. It's got great ambience I think." I nod; there is something lulling, something alluring about the room.

"I wonder what your family did down here?" I wonder aloud. Laura nods a twinkle in her eye.

"If the rest of the Ashtons are anything to go by I'd say orgies. They were a rum lot. Anyway," she goes back to the corridor and opens a door without a window, "this'll be your room."

I look into the room. It's like something out of a TV thriller. Grey walls, a low bed pushed against the wall, a metal table and two chairs.

"Is that ok? Is there anything you want me to get down here for you? The bars?"She grins. I shake my head, not at the bars, but because I really don't know.

"I'll just get a selection of things John, nothing too full on. Cuffs, the bars, blindfold, a gag?" the last is a question with a grin. I think about Sherlock and his smart mouth, I think of him not being able to answer back for once and I nod.

So I'm feeling slightly more confident when I get back to 221b. Sherlock has Chinese food in metal cartons on the dining room table. I don't look at the experiment he has moved to the floor. I do however look surprised at the food.

"The mobile again? No signal so I must be on the tube?" I guess. He stops dishing the noodles and comes around the table to kiss me as he takes my jacket off my shoulders.

"No, Laura rang and said you were on your way." He grins, always one step ahead.

"You're so smug aren't you Holmes?" I laugh as I grab him and kiss him back fiercely; he relaxes into me and opens his mouth for my tongue.

"mmmmm." He says unintelligibly. I pull back.

"Pardon?" I raise an eyebrow.

"It's not smug if it's true is it?" he grins impishly. I move past him towards the food.

"You might not be so smug after Wednesday, sunshine." I say and slap his backside. As I pile my food onto my plate I look at him. He is grinning like a kid at Christmas.

Still under the work avalanche but fuck it eh? This is what fanfic is for! Escapism! So I dedicate this chapter to everyone who should really be doing something else but you're reading Rubber Ring! Whether it's homework, coursework, shopping, office work, looking after children or anything else that you'd rather not be doing, this is for you!

Let me know how I did. Another explainy chapter but with the sex at the start. I think I liked this sex best but I can't work out why, so can you help me? Are you happy with the kidnap plan? like Laura's house? Excited for new chapters? Any good lines you liked? Feed this author's number muddled brain with happiness!

We have a few newer reviewers and this makes me a very happy BC fanatic but without my Baker Street Irregulars: PrincessNala, Peachsilk, Darmed , Clubba Bear ,Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 and new irregulars Tillififf and Harpyquin this fic would not be here. Honestly you guys make me write and make me want to write better! Thank you. Any new reviewers wanting a BSI mention need to let me know!

As always I love my OHOB and my Reggie. cx


	9. Kidnap!

From the point of view of Sherlock Holmes

Interesting, my heart beat has risen to ninety one beats per minute which is considerably higher than is usual. I expect it's because I am excited about John and Laura's plan. I have deliberately avoided any discussion on tonight's activities except to tell John that Lestrade has phoned to say Freiman has returned to England as I knew he would. He wasn't able to resist the siren call of Laura's party. I am glad that my assumptions are proving correct. It's comforting, if somewhat boring, that the criminal classes have not yet found something to do which eludes my deduction. Oh well tonight should prove a distraction.

I scan the underground car park, wondering where Laura is now. She told me to meet her here at eight and that she'd take me to where we were going to stage the kidnapping. It's ten past and she still isn't here. It's not like her to be so late and a part of me is worried that there is something wrong. I look at my watch again. Eleven minutes past. It's chilly down here, all the breezeblock and concrete do nothing to capture the heat of the day which, now the night has set in has dropped to a cold evening.

I put my hands into my pockets and am grateful I decided against the leather and mesh outfit tonight. I wanted to stay authentic and if I was to be kidnapped it's unlikely I'd be dressed in those clothes. I smile to myself as I imagine the would-be kidnapper's expression as they realise they've kidnapped a bondage freak. The idea entertains me for a moment and then my mind wanders back to this evening's proposed performance.

I have no idea how John will play this and that's part of the fun. I've never met anyone like him. Usually people are so mind numbingly predictable. In their grooves for life until they fall off the track at the end. But not John, not my John. I allow myself another smile at the use of the possessive pronoun. He astonishes me constantly with his decisions, his bravery in situations which are alien to him. He's so exhilarating to be with and he doesn't even realise it. He's like one long, complicated experiment. It's wonderful.

Take this situation for example. Find me any amount of kidnap victims and I will predict that none of them would be game for this kind of thing. But John is. And that's because he's an exceptional person. In another era he'd be an explorer, the sort of man who goes out in the face of incredible danger and finds new lands. He's so different from anyone else I have met. So open to change, to new things. And then he's also so... normal is the wrong adjective, too mundane and pedestrian for John. He's an everyman. He sees what I don't, picks up the nuances of emotions and feeling which someone like me doesn't perceive easily. He's my window to the world. Does that sound dramatic? I won't apologise because it's an accurate representation of our relationship. Oh. And he's gorgeous.

My mind is wandering along the leafy lane of John's gorgeousness when there is a scuffing sound behind me, feet on concrete, men's shoes moving fast. I begin to turn but my arms are pinned firmly at my sides, my hands still in my pockets. Clever. Very clever. I forgot his army training. Silly me.

The hands which grip me are strong and I couldn't move if I wanted to but I put up a token struggle, after all this is a game and I have to play along. I don't get very far and then someone puts a soft bag over my head and the world goes black.

No one has spoken and I am man handled along, not too roughly, I presume he's getting used to the idea before he feels comfortable in the role. I don't want to push him too hard so I allow myself to be pulled along. I feel us go through a doorway and I presume it in the one which leads to Laura's house. I let my weight fall slightly to the right, leaning against the doorway and trying to out my attackers off balance. But John's training has him ready for this. He swings out a leg and clips my foot, not enough to hurt but enough for me to lift it and then he rights me, bodily, back onto my feet. I smile under the hood. We stop.

"Don't be fucking funny Sherlock Holmes." His voice sounds rougher than usual and a thrill of adrenaline gets my body humming. He's better than I thought he'd be. "Nod if you understand that it will go much easier for you if you just play nicely." I leave it a long minute and just when I hear him sigh and start to move I nod. "Good, now get a move on." He bundles me along a corridor. I can hear music at the end of the corridor. I think it's Lady Gaga. I don't pay much attention to popular music but this was playing in Laura's pub and I thought the title apt.

"I like it rough" is getting louder as we stop and I am shoved into a room on my right. I stagger forward as my arms are briefly free and fall against something which feels like a mattress. I skim my hands down and feel short metal legs. It's a bunk. I'm just getting my bearings when my hands are snatched behind me, my coat pulled off my shoulders and I feel the cold metal and hear the sharp click of the cuffs. He pulls me to my feet.

He stands in front of me, toe to toe and I can feel the heat from his body and listen to his ragged breathing. I know we're alone and, for a moment I relish the feeling of being at his mercy. The strange mixture of play terror and adrenaline remind me of the delicious fear I used to experience when, as a child, I played hide and seek. That usually ended when Mycroft found me.

I shake my head and try to stay focussed on the room. John's moved away for me now and, though I can still hear him breathing, I can't tell where he is. This tells me that there is so little furniture in the room that the sound of his breath has nothing from which to bounce.

I'm pondering this question when his hands trace my cheek through the hood.

"My god, you're so fucking hot like this." He sounds raw. This is what John really thinks, not the censored version he lets me see until passion has him too far gone to care. This is John as he is inside his head. It seems that wearing this hood I have allowed him to let himself go, to say what he is really thinking. The realisation is an enormous turn on. I am hard in an instant.

He steps away from me and I imagine him looking me over. I have no idea where he is and this is a new and exciting situation. I'm so familiar with having a grasp on my circumstances that this new sensation is quite overwhelming. The confusion and the lack of information just makes me more excited.

His hands run down my sides, the contact shocking and far more intimate in my vulnerable state. He untucks my shirt from my trousers and runs his hands over my nipples. I am about to moan but then I remember I am supposed to not be enjoying this. Oh this is fun!

"What...what are you doing?" I stammer, I think I'm quite good at terrified victim actually.

"Whatever I like Holmes." I hear the smile in his voice and register the use of my surname. It's a quirk I like. "You're mine to play with for now. So stop talking before I find something else for that mouth to do." Oh god. Yes. Yes please, oh nasty Mr Kidnapper.

John's Watson's POV.

I didn't think he'd be so easy to fool but there he was standing there waiting for Laura. She was dead right that he would assume we would start the game at the party. After all, she had said smiling; it's how we've done things before with Sherlock. And she was right, he wasn't expecting it.

He was pitifully easy to grab, I'll have to give him some kind of crash course in self defence I think as I pin his arms to his sides and Laura bags him. He could kick back at me and I half expect the move, I'm in combat mode for once in a very long time. I feel the familiar friend adrenaline coursing through my veins but this time it isn't life and death that brings the lady of the quick pulse and dry mouth running through my body, it's excitement. And lust. Oh yeah. Lust's there too.

We drag and pull him to the door where he makes a clever stumbling feint and I tap him with my foot and pull him back to his feet. Smart arse.

"Don't be fucking funny Sherlock Holmes." I hiss at him, getting into the role. Laura grins at me and I grin back. It feels like playing, like being kids. I want to laugh because of the rush of it all. I decide to step the game up a little, assert myself. "Nod if you understand that it will go much easier for you if you just play nicely." He doesn't say anything and I'm just about to give him a dig in the ribs to show I mean it and then he nods. Laura gives me the thumbs up. This is the first stage of making it real which she has explained to me. He's accepted the game and he's going to play along now. "Good, now get a move on."

We bring him down the corridor to the room which Laura has set up for me. As we open the door I hear the music playing in the main room and I try hard not to laugh. It's Lady bloody Gaga of all things and the song is the appropriately titled 'I like it rough'. Jesus. Laura shrugs and raises an eyebrow like she's apologising. I shake my head and push him into the room.

Once I get his coat off and the cuffs on Laura signals that she's leaving. I wave and she grabs my shoulder briefly before she goes off to the party where I think she's left Rose in the stocks. She said the waiting time would 'soften her up'. Laura's a bit scary sometimes.

He's standing there, breathing a little heavily and there's something so vulnerable about him, something I've never seen in him before that I have to tell him, touch him. I run my hand over his cheekbone, still discernable through the hood.

"My god, you're so fucking hot like this." His breath hisses in, his body tenses slightly. I step away; I can see how hard he is through his suit trousers. This gives me all the license I need. I run my hands down the sides of his shirt, feeling his warm skin underneath the soft material. I pull the shirt out of his trousers and watch as the fabric lies flat over his chest and his nipples bud against the cloth. I slip my fingers over them, scratching lightly. He trembles and I think he's going to make some sort of noise but then there is a subtle shift in his posture.

"What...what are you doing?" He sounds scared and I can't imagine Sherlock scared so I know he is playing. More license, more belief from him which bolsters my evil stalker persona. I'm getting into this. I can feel my own erection hard in my jeans; feel my blood zipping through me, my heartbeat racing.

"Whatever I like Holmes." I grin and I have to say I enjoy this pretend power. "You're mine to play with for now. So stop talking before I find something else for that mouth to do." Go on complain now Sherlock, just give me any excuse.

Of course then he decides to behave and I have to think of something to do. Damn.

Maybe I should give him something to do. I pick the blindfold up from the end of the bunk.

"Close your eyes Holmes. I want that pretty mouth available to me so I'm taking the hood off." Laura told me to tell him what I'm doing. She said it would reassure him but I think it gets him excited too. Good.

I pull off the hood and his eyes are tightly shut. I smile; more complicity, more agreement with the roles we have developed in the few minutes we've been playing. I wrap the blindfold over his eyes and tie the knot. Then I tip him backwards, swinging my foot lightly against his leg to throw him off balance, it's basic training but he won't know how to deal with it. He stumbles backwards and I make sure he falls on the mattress with the pillow under his head. I straddle his chest and unzip my jeans.

"Ok Holmes, if you want to get out of this unscathed then you're going to have to be very clever with that mouth of yours." He nods quickly. I grab his chin and angle his mouth so that the tip of my cock is on his bottom lip. He moans and I grin.

After a minute, where he waits for more instruction and I give him none, he puts out his tongue. His vulnerability as he feels for my hard flesh and the uncomfortable posture of me holding his chin has me spinning out of control before he even touches me.

I've felt his mouth on me before; of course I have, but not like this, not the searing heat of his mouth and the maddening flick of his tongue over me. Is it the effort he's putting in, or the knowledge that he is playing my game or both? I don't know and I'm not sure I care to be honest. I grab his head, forcing him to take more and I feel his throat open up to me, he moans around me and I nearly cone from the vibration and the noise. I pull away; he drops his head back onto the pillows.

If I have any doubt of the power play between us it is made self evident by his next words.

"Look, I don't know what you want but I'll... I'll... do anything, just don't hurt me." Wow. For a moment I rock back on my heels, the cool air drying his saliva on my hot skin. It floors me, his words, his submission I suppose, makes this so much more intense. I slide down him and bend my head close to him, my cock against his thigh, his own hard on pressing up through his thin trousers.

"Now you're getting it Holmes. You just play like good boy and do what I say and it'll all be fine." I nip his ear with my teeth and run them down his neck. He hisses and his hips move involuntarily. "Now my first rule for our evening is that if you want to come then you'd better ask me nicely. If I don't give you permission and you can't help yourself, there'll be trouble." I grin. This is one of Laura's techniques she told me. Always nice to hear them beg, she had grinned. I think I have to agree. He nods, a little more uncertain. "So let's test that intellectual capacity shall we?" I say lightly unfastening his trousers.

His entire body is tense and as I pull his shorts down he pushes against my hand. I press his hips to the bed and tut.

"Let's remember those rules shall we?" I begin to stroke him, long, slow strokes, just how I know he likes it best. The little flick of the thumb over the fraenulum and he's bucking wildly. With the other hand I rub his balls, he arches off the bed, his mouth open and his breathing laboured. I know him and I know he will come soon but will he ask me for it? I suppose this is the test of the game.

I watch him, aware that I never get to watch him like this. So raw, so exposed. I cast my eyes over the shadows and contours of his body, his dark hair curling between his legs, the pale skin over his ribs. He begins to pant and his thrusts match my hand.

"Please, please." He gasps. I slow my hand, barely touching him, he growls.

"Please what Holmes? That doesn't sound like a man with an IQ of 190 now does it?" He moans and I take my hands away entirely. I leave it a moment, he lies still but I can hear him thinking.

"Please, let me come." He says quietly, still breathing hard. I put my hands back and begin the stroking again, his skin is soft and it feels like he's on fire, like all the life in his body is concentrated on that one spot. "Oh god, please, please" he begs.

"No." I say and stand up from the bed. He shudders and twists slightly. His mouth screws up and he bites his lip like he's stopping himself from telling me to just fucking get on with it. He probably is.

I kneel back on the bed and move his legs apart. I place his feet on the mattress and run my hands over the sensitive exposed parts of him. He groans.

"You're going to have to stop that racket if you want to come Holmes. I want to concentrate on how hard I'm going to fuck you. You do want me to fuck you don't you?" he nods and it's a desperate, feral movement. It turns me on more than ever before. "Maybe I should help you with that?" Laura has left the gag on the end of the bed. It's not one of those uncomfortable ball gags she showed me, just a simple band with a rubber bar which fits through the mouth and can be bitten down on. I pick it up and put it over his mouth.

"Now I've used that mouth for what I wanted I'm going to shut you up." I menace. And I lift his head so I can fasten the bar at the back. Those perfect, pointed lips clamp around the rubber.

I slick the lube over us, lots of it over him, making sure it trickles down his cock in what I hope is a tantalising manner. He bucks and writhes; I've never seen him like this.

I hold his legs apart and guide myself to his entrance. The tension is so immense I can feel every hair on my body as though the air was electrified. Just before I push forward I decide I want to see his eyes. I want to see his gagged expression as I take him. I know that this is not part of the rules I made for myself and I know that I am pushing the boundary of our game but I don't fucking care.

I pull the blindfold up over his head; he blinks and looks confused as though he thinks we're stopping. That the game is over and one of us is going to say 'cactus'. Then I push inside him. He bites down on the bar because it's all he can do and I know it's not from pain because his eyes roll back in his head and he moans the most erotic sound I have ever heard in my life.

Inch by inch, until I am balls deep in him, I take it slowly. He is hissing through the gag, then growling deep in his chest as I pull out nearly all the way and slam back hard. I lean my weight against his legs, one hand on his cheek as I take him utterly.

I can hear myself groan as I push forward and I bring my hand down, flicking over his nipples and down to his cock. He bucks up in frenzy as my fingers skim his erection. He looks at me as he thrusts against me, his movements forcing me deeper into him.

I don't know if we're still in the game and I can't tell who we are anymore anyway. As I start to come I tell him the one thing I do still know.

"You're mine Holmes, you're all mine and you always fucking will be." He nods, it's a desperate action. His eyes flicker and he starts to come in my hand. His muscles spasm and they squeeze and contract until I am coming too.

I slump over him panting, unwilling to move because it feels so fucking amazing and I don't know what to do next. I feel his chest heaving and his heart hammering next to my ear.

I pull away gently.

"Cactus." I say as I remove the gag and kiss his mouth. I try to show him how much I love him with that kiss. How much I respect him and appreciate his effort in the scene we have just played. I unlock the cuffs and rub his wrists. Then I put my arms about him and hold him. I stroke his hair.

"Thank you." I tell him and he turns his face up to mine and kisses me in return. I can't express the relief that I feel from that kiss. I feel my eyes well up with tears and I try to turn away but he holds my face in his hands and he looks right at me.

"You were amazing." He mumbles and comes forward for another kiss. "I love you."

It's overwhelming, this feeling of being bonded to him, of a shared moment of our most private selves. More than the sex or the vulnerability is the trust. I finally get it. Why people do these things. We have shared the darkest, scariest part of our heads tonight.

"I love you too Sherlock."

Ok I can honestly say I have no fucking idea what you'll think of this! I wanted to mirror the ambush of the scene by ambushing you with Sherlock's narrative. How did I do? Did it sound like him? I really need some feedback here. It was a risk.

I have to thank without my Baker Street Irregulars: PrincessNala and Peachsilk – you guys are the best. It's brilliant being able to try ideas, sentences and plans out on you and getting your response. Thanks also for the encouragement and support! , Darmed , Clubba Bear (excited about your fic!) ,Tasty- Kate ( a transatlantic pleasure darling!), 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa, Munchiees, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington (you facebook buddy), mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild (happy when I see your name), Mouserjb4 and Tillififf and Harpyquin. You're just fantastic. Have you seen the picture Jazzysatindoll did for the monopoly murders? It's amazing! PM her and ask to see it. I mean it when I say that you are what makes this fic.

As always I love my OHOB and my Reggie. cx


	10. Party at Laura's

It's a while until we catch our breath, it's how I imagine the come down from drugs might feel. The slow realisation that we can't stay inside our cosy bubble and we have to meet the outside world. It's weird to think that the profound event which has just changed my world was at first just a premise to get close to Freiman. I also remember the conversation Sherlock and I had when he told me Lestrade had phoned.

"I knew he'd come back for Laura's party." he clapped his hands together, clearly delighted with the news.

"What?" I looked up from the book I was reading 'SM101', Laura called it homework.

"Freiman's back in England, London specifically. Flew in this afternoon. I knew he wouldn't miss Laura's party." I put the book down.

"What? So he's a rabid party animal who can't resist dropping his nefarious people smuggling for a good bondage bash?" I frown; this makes zero sense to me. Sherlock smiles in a indulgent fashion, he can't help it. I suppose that's what happens when you're as razor sharp as he is.

"No John. But this is where he gets some of his clients." I can see my expression of horror is registering with him. He sits down next to me on the sofa and gently pries the book from my hands. He glances at the page I am reading, orgasm denial, and grins malevolently.

"I'm not saying there are crazy people traffickers at the party but I think Eccles interest in the kidnap scene went a little further than anyone is willing to tell us. Maybe he got in too far? Maybe he didn't realise until it was too late what he had signed up for?"

"Maybe it was all fun and games until he realised these people really had been kidnapped?" I offer and he nods, I can see he's excited by my suggestion. He's like an eager school teacher when he's like this. I frown again and he looks at me curiously.

"Do you think Mycroft knows? About the sex slave thing?" now Sherlock frowns, he steeples his hands and looks out of the window. After a moment, where I watch the pulse in his neck and think about the page I was reading, he answers.

"No. I know he's an objectionable old bastard but I don't think even he'd... no." He says and there is uncertainty in his voice and I know just why it's there. His brother went along with a murderous board game for years and only did something when he was forced to do so by his bosses. Is kidnapping beyond him? My experiences say no. Sherlock turns to me and grins.

"So, swotting for tonight?" he asks and I know he really doesn't want an answer.

"You'll have to wait and see." I grin back at him. Subject changed.

So eventually I help him clean up, Laura's left some wet wipes and a bag of clothes which Sherlock packed during the day for him to change into when we were done playing. My jeans and the t shirt with the studs have survived the fun pretty much unscathed so that's ok. I grab the bag and Sherlock pulls the clothes out. It's his leather and mesh combo. Oh sweet lord. As if things weren't interesting enough tonight.

He leans on me as he gets dressed, more than he needs to in order to balance. I notice that we are both more tactile, more aware of the connection between us than we were before. To stand next to him is to feel an ocean of air between us and the sensation is disorientating after our intimacy. I put my hand on his arm and he looks at me and smiles.

"Are you ok?" he asks. I nod. I am. I'm better than ok. I don't understand it but I feel like I've been scoured clean, like I've let out a lot of tension or aggression. I used to feel a bit like this post rugby match but this is far more intense. I decide to analyse it later.

"So, remind me again. What am I saying to Freiman?" I am nervous about this but strangely not as much I was earlier this evening. It's as though playing this role with Sherlock has loosened me up, freed me from some inhibitions. I suppose it has.

"Well, tell him we did a kidnap scene. Tell him it was too tame, you're bored, need some new buzz."

"Should I suggest that it's all so 'acted' and I want something more real?" he nods.

"If you can do it subtly, I think it'll pique his interest." He's dressed now and with his cheeks still slightly flushed from his orgasm; his lips still a little redder and his messy hair I have a hard time not convincing him to stay with me in the small room with the bunk. He catches my appreciative glance and strides to me, grabbing my backside and pulling me in close.

"It's not over John Watson," he growls, grinning and pushing his hips against me. "You still have an appointment with those bars." He raises an eyebrow and I swallow. How did he know I was thinking about that? He winks and kisses me.

Out on the corridor the music is loud. We wander down the corridor, past the tinted windows which lead to the other rooms. We see Laura, Lola I suppose, and Rose. Rose is in the stocks and it looks like they've just finished their fun because they are both grinning widely. Lola is wrapping a long shiny rubber skirt around her waist and the black of the heavy material contrasts with the shocking pink rubber corset she's wearing. From what I can see Rose has the reversed colours on. Her rubber dress, so short it could be a vest, is black with pink edging which circles the holes over her nipples and the lines run down the front accentuating her curves as it barely covers her hips.

Sherlock knocks on the glass and Rose looks over and waves with a hand still captured in the stocks. He laughs. Lola unclips her partner, rubs some kind of lotion on her wrists and passes her a drink. Then she opens the door and stands in the doorway grinning at us.

"Have fun gentlemen?" she asks with a chuckle. In unison Sherlock and I nod enthusiastically and Lola laughs loudly. "Brilliant! That's what I like to see!" she looks at me. "Debrief later?" I look at Sherlock and he nods.

"From both of us... if John is ok with that?" I nod. You know what, I think I am. Lola grins.

"Get the drinks in boys; we'll see you in there." She nods down the corridor and we make our way to where the music is pounding and the soft lighting is inviting us in to Lola's Aladdin's cave.

People pass by us, all dressed in weird and wonderful outfits. Women dressed as policewomen in rubber uniforms, someone, I can't tell their gender, covered entirely in glitter, a man in a complete latex outfit with zips in his hood for his mouth and nose. It's all so interesting, so different and I'm intrigued by my lack of reaction to these extremes. The transformation that has been wrought upon me by meeting this astounding man is something which I can hardly fathom. But I like it, I like the new me. I recognise now that the old John Watson was too unsure, too careful. He was going to live and die bored out of his mind. But not me. Not with Sherlock.

In the cave room the atmosphere is that of lots of private parties going on in one space. People lounge about, drinking and laughing and some people are dancing. There's a bar in a sort of ante room off to the side of the cave and we make our way through the crowd towards it. Several people say hello to Sherlock including one very enthusiastic young man dressed as an angel. He has silver heavy boots on under silver leather trousers and his entire torso is painted the same metallic hue, his wings hang on his back, slightly askew.

"Sherlock! Fantastic to see you! Who's this?" His eyes travel over me and it feels indecent. His full mouth is curved in a big smile and he's attractive in a boyish, androgynous sort of way. Sherlock stops and he is smiling.

"Art! Hello. Haven't seen you for ages!" They don't hug as I expected them to; like other people would on meeting an old friend, but then I remember Sherlock probably doesn't hug anyone but me and I feel a little smug.

"And... so this is...?" Art waves at me again and cocks his head. "The reason we've not seen you for ages?" he enquires. Sherlock nods solemnly.

"This is John, Art. John Watson. And yes, he's the reason you've not seen me. We've been...busy." This last word is directed at me with a grin and I laugh. Art looks pleased.

"Great! Well he looks very nice." He mock leers at me. "We should get together sometime, for drinks, or sharing." He laughs and I realise he is joking; he's obviously noticed that, since we started speaking, Sherlock is holding my hand in his. I feel his fingers tighten slightly in mine and then he answers.

"I'm afraid Art, that sharing is out of the question. I'm not even slightly bored yet." He smiles at me and I realise what a big compliment that is. Art does too; he raises his eyebrows with a low whistle.

"Wow. Big statement from the mighty Holmes." He grins. Sherlock takes the ribbing well and he l laughs too. "You," he points a silver finger at my chest, "must be something special Mr. Watson."

"Dr. Watson," Sherlock corrects and Art laughs again.

"Oh well, that explains it all Sherlock!" They both laugh. It strikes me that Sherlock is more comfortable with these people and with James his Big Issue seller than with anyone else I have seen. With the outsiders, the deviants. It's an interesting observation.

Art is moving on, he's spotted some more people he knows.

"Well Dr Watson, have fun with the brain there!" he laughs and I laugh with him, Sherlock smiles. "Although in that outfit it's not the brain I'm looking at!" and he moves off through the crowd like a small silver shark.

I look at Sherlock and gesture questioningly to the retreating angel.

"Art," he shrugs, "another member of the aristocracy, friend of Laura's. Good man." He ends smiling. I wonder for a moment if he's another of Sherlock's experiments but that's soon drowned out by Lola and Rose who burst upon us through the crowd. It's interesting; we all seem to be on the same high.

"Did you even get to the bar?" asks Lola.

"No, we met Art." I say and she laughs.

"Oh yes, that boy's a distraction alright. Anyway I wanted to tell you..." but whatever she has to say is forgotten because a tall, blond young man interrupts us all. All of us gawp at him, probably for different reasons. In the split second before he speaks I register two things. One, everyone else in this group knows him well and two, he looks like a model. Honestly, he's at least six foot four and his hair is that messy, surf hair everyone tries to have. His eyes are light blue and framed by a face which is so traditionally handsome that it's a bit intimidating. He is well built and I get the impression that he plays rugby and probably plays it well.

"Sherlock?" his voice is deep and he is frowning. I look at Sherlock whose eyes have gone wide and whose tongue is at his top lip in an expression which is as embarrassed as I have ever seen him. I am amazed to say the least. I look back at the intruder and I realise who he is. Andrew.

Rose jumps into the conversation.

"Oh my god Andrew! I haven't seen you in ages! How's work? The house? Is it finished yet?" he glances at her and dismisses her questions with a blink. He looks at me.

"Who's this Sherlock?" his voice could freeze blood. Fuck this, I think, and step forward, mindful that my body language puts me between him and Sherlock.

"John Watson." I hold out my hand. He looks at it and then shakes it, putting slightly more force than necessary into his grip. Idiot. "And you are?" I make it quite clear I haven't a clue. No mate, he doesn't talk about you, at all, my expression says.

"Andrew Blackledge." He says curtly and his eyes go back to Sherlock's face. He moves so that his line of sight to Sherlock is clear again. Sherlock is smiling from one side of his mouth. "So, have you changed your number?"

"No. I lost my phone." Sherlock replies as if he's oblivious to the fact that this is one of the lamest excuses there is for not calling someone, then he adds. "I've been using John's."

Andrew's face grows more serious at this last comment.

"I tried to call you." he says accusingly, bitterly.

"I told you not to," Sherlock states this, like a fact. He really has no idea with people. A flicker of a frown crosses Andrew's face. He looks at Lola, Rose and then at me as if deciding whether to say anymore in front of us.

"Can we go somewhere? And talk?" his voice takes on an earnest tone. Sherlock looks at all of us and then back to Andrew. His face is blank.

"No," he says, "there isn't anything to talk about." Andrew's face grows a shade darker at this. I can almost see him decide to just say what he has to say anyway, regardless of the audience.

"I thought we had something Sherlock, something... well... I don't know but I thought that you felt..." he runs his hand over his face and I almost feel sorry for him because I know what's coming. I know what Sherlock does when people presume things of him.

"Andrew, I remember quite vividly that I never once led you to believe that our arrangement was anything other than a series of experiments I wanted to carry out. I also remember telling you explicitly that ours was in no way a relationship based on any emotional feelings. I really don't understand how you can have misconstrued my intentions?" he raises his eyebrows and the hand that is not in mine fans out as though to emphasise the confusion he's expressing. If it wasn't so tense it'd be funny.

"Is this another experiment?" Andrew's voice is sharp with anger and he points at me. Lola puts her hand on his chest and he bats it away. The gesture is aggressive and uncalled for. Something trips a switch inside my head, I can't stand bad manners. I step back between them.

"Look, Andrew?" I phrase his name like a question, "I think Sherlock's made it quite clear that your time together is over now. And, well... we're enjoying this party and..." the next thing I know is Andrew has pulled back his shoulder and swung a punch at me.

Before it can connect, and things get slow motion like we're in some sci fi film, Sherlock's long fingered hand comes up and swipes the fist away with some oriental martial art move. I have no time to register the shock because Andrew is coming at me again.

For the second time that night, basic training kicks in. I sweep a foot out, catching him on the kneecap midstride. The leg crumples under him and he goes down hard. People around us look over and some of them realise that this is not a game or a performance. Lola waves to a man behind the bar and he is with us in seconds. He helps Andrew up and begins to escort him away, Andrew still looking back over his shoulder. In a childish impulse I grab Sherlock and pull him into a long kiss, grabbing his hair with one hand and his arse with the other. I hear Lola and Rose laughing.

When I break the kiss Sherlock is panting slightly and grinning.

"I don't know why they don't just grow antlers and fight it out in the car park." Lola says to Rose laughing. I laugh, she's right, but something about the flush on Sherlock's cheeks tells me he found that exchange a little more than exhilarating. Interesting, I shelve the information for later.

We're still laughing when I spot Freiman. I nudge Sherlock but he's already looking that way too. I figure I'm better off getting this out of the way but I have no idea how to approach him.

"I'm just off to the bathroom." I mumble and Sherlock nods.

"We'll be over there." Lola points to a corner where there's a free chaise longue and some cushions.

Luckily for me Art is already talking to a man standing by Freiman and he spots me and waves.

"Hi Art, seen Sherlock?" I ask pretending to scan the crowd. He shakes his head.

"That awful Andrew's just been 'escorted from the premises'" he air quotes and grins. "God, he's so fucking tedious. Anyway John, this is Gus and Damien, friends of someone..." he waves a hand to the crowd vaguely and giggles, "someone who I just met but can't remember their name." He shrugs and we all laugh.

"Were you in the kidnap room John?" Gus asks me, his eyes are a pale slate colour and he squints at me as though he's slightly short sighted. The scar puckers his face badly, cutting through the muscle and the hair of his eyebrow. Damien is a tall, blonde man; he looks bored out of his mind. He even yawns as he scans the crowd.

"Yeah that was me." I roll my eyes to express tedium and Gus laughs.

"What? Not exciting enough for you? Lola throws a mean party." I laugh too and drink the drink he's passed to me, it's lager but I'll live.

"Gus, when you've seen life and death like I have then playing games can get a bit flat you know?" he raises an eyebrow.

"Army? Seen some action John?" I nod and drink my pint, watching his reaction over the rim of my glass.

"You could say I've seen what you might call action, a lot more fucking risky than this fake shit though." I make my voice hard and sharp. He grins a wide smile.

"Have you been coming here long? Got any special friends here?" I shake my head.

"I know Lola and Rose but only briefly and I don't know anyone else here." Gus nods thoughtfully and points to where Art is chatting up some bloke in a rubber Nazi uniform. "Art? No just met him tonight. In fact, you're the first person I've spoken to properly. To be honest," I lower my voice conspiratorially and he leans in to listen. "I'm finding it all a bit," I give a long sigh and shrug. "I thought it'd be a bit more exciting you know, dangerous. Guess it's not the buzz I was looking for."

He nods again and glances at Damien who gives the most imperceptible of nods in return. Gus turns to me.

"John," he tilts his head backwards sharply indicating to me that he's saying something private, confidential between us two. "I might be able to help you out with that particular problem." I raise my eyebrows and nod for him to go on. He pulls a phone from his pocket and taps the keyboard.

"What's your number? I'll ring you when we get the next gig set up. You can come along and see what you think." I give him my number.

"Ok, sounds good. It's not more of this though is it?" I wave my hand dismissively, "'cause I can't handle more rich people playing games, you know what I mean?" he laughs.

"I don't think you'll be disappointed mate."

"Nice one. Right well better get back." I roll my eyes again and he chuckles.

"Yeah, don't miss the fun." I smirk and walk away.

Sherlock and the girls are drinking and people watching. Lola is making comments on people's outfits and the mess someone's made of one of the rooms. They're all laughing. Sherlock spots me and pats the large floor cushion next to his chair. Laughing I motion for him to stand up and he grins. Then he sits on the cushion and leaves me the chair. Lola and Rose roar with laughter.

"This John, is a false sense of security." Sherlock laughs up at me, his bright eyes glittering. "Wait until I get you home."

"Oooooooh." Chorus Lola and Rose and we are still laughing when Art and his new friend, the rubber Nazi, join us. The conversation gets ribald and rowdy.

"How did it go?" Sherlock asks me quietly.

"He's got my number," I answer and his face is momentarily serious. "He's going to ring me when something exciting's going to happen."

So I needed to move the plot along and deal with Andrew. Was it ok? I feel a bit of a come down after the last chapter (did I peak too soon?) but maybe that's because there was less action in this? Did you like john's smack down? Sherlock's martial arts? Art's wings? Let me know what you thought. I really find your comments useful.

Btw does anyone know of any Sherlock fanfic awards we can go for? These things always scare me but you've given me so much confidence!

Much love for The Baker St Irregulars! I am constantly amazed at the support of: PrincessNala , Peachsilk , Darmed (hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear (tomorrow!), Tasty- Kate(about those babies...) , 2cajuman2(lovely to have you in my inbox again)Tanya Zsa Zsa ,Munchiees, Aelfric's cat(hope you're still out there), Nellyington (no laptop! Horror!) , mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild (love your reviews) and Mouserjb4 (are you back soon?), Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (find her monopoly drawing on deviantart, it's lovely and will make you go awwww) ! Love you!

Love my OHOB and my darling Reggie, Cxx


	11. Disruption

The cab journey back to 221b is boisterous. Sherlock kisses me, pulling my head back so he can devour my mouth. His hands are everywhere, teasing, stroking, nipping until I am out of breath and blood rushes through my body. neither of us care about the driver or the motions of the cab as he throws us around corners, obviously keen to get us to our destination before he sees more than he cares for.

Sherlock pays the driving, grinning at him and wishing him a good night. Then he bundles me through the door. We are laughing, giggling and pulling at each other. He presses me against the wall and does a slow grind of his hips against me.

"I just want to let you know what you're in for Dr Watson," he chuckles as I gasp at the feel of him, hard through the leather.

We're halfway up the stairs, I am in front, one of his hands is on my backside and he is pressed behind me, urging me up every step. I stop. He moans as my halting pushes him against me and he runs his hands down my chest. When he gets no reaction he looks up. The door to 221b Baker St is open.

Not wide open but ajar. More ajar than we have left it. I even remember telling him to lock it before he set off to Laura's. I half turn to him and am just about to whisper, to ask him and he nods. He did. He remembers.

I step forward lightly on the balls of my feet and make the last few stairs without a creek. Sherlock waits for me to wave him up. I gesture with my hand for him to move, listening for sounds inside the flat but there is only a muffled breathing, a sound the water boiler sometimes makes. I flatten myself along the door, the layout of the room shielding me if the intruder is inside. Sherlock creeps behind me and I am just about to indicate to him that I will go in when I feel his hand on my shoulder and I see him nod. He already understands. It occurs to me briefly that this is like the fluent, unstinted team work I have had with my fellow soldiers and some part of me registers this union, this bond which doesn't need me to tell him anything in words. In a cold moment of fear it is a ray of light.

Carefully I inch myself through the crack in the door, it is barely wide enough and the door feels like it will protest, will creak and alert our intruder, because now I am certain that they are still in the flat. A sixth sense warns me and I've learnt to trust it. I grip the wood of the door and ease it back gently.

The lights are off and the yellow streetlight bisects the room through the long windows. The room is untouched, still the dreadful mess in which we left it. The only anomaly, the only addition, is the figure of a man sitting in Sherlock's green leather armchair. The darkness of his clothes reflects in the chair's chrome legs and arms. He has his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. From the posture I discern exactly who he is.

"Mycroft?" I turn on the light as I enter the room. He looks up and his face is such a picture of abject grief, red and swollen eyes stark against the pale skin and slightly ginger cast of his hair that I am shocked. He puts up a hand.

"Please, John, turn off the light." and I do. Sherlock pushes past me and I put out my hand to warn him not to lose his temper, not to say something cruel because his brother looks like he will break apart into a million pieces if he does.

But Sherlock is in the kitchen, I hear him getting glasses, pouring a drink. He comes across the room and puts one glass down at Mycroft's feet. It is a curiously child like gesture, like an offering and he doesn't hand the glass to him as though he's scared of the physical contact.

I cross the room and kneel in front of the now silent man. His shoulders are heaving and I think he's sobbing. A cold wave of dread washes over me. I touch his knee and he flinches.

"Mycroft, what is it? What happened?"For a moment he doesn't answer, he barely lifts his head when he does speak. His voice is as though someone has wrung all the emotion from him. He sounds flat, empty.

"Simon's dead." He whispers.

We've sat here in the dark now for an hour and Mycroft hasn't said another word. Sherlock's filled our glasses three times. I watch with interest his careful prising of his brother's hand from the glass. Despite all their bickering Sherlock can still see Mycroft is hurt beyond words.

"I got a message," He says eventually, "on the secure phone line. From Simon saying where I'd find him... god, they must have made him make the call and then..." his voice breaks. It's awful, terrifying how this usually so self reliant, cold man has been broken by this news. He sniffs and pulls out a large handkerchief and wipes his face. "When I got there, he was already dead. He was still warm. It could only have been moments since they..." he begins to cry quietly. Sherlock stands up and crosses to the window.

"Were you followed here?" his voice sounds remote and I look at him sharply, thinking how unfeeling his question is considering the circumstances but Mycroft looks up and his face is calmer.

"No, I'm sure of it. I wouldn't have come here at all but..." he screws up his face, like a child trying not to cry. I know what he means. He came here because he knows we will understand. Because if this happened to Sherlock or I we would be equally devastated. It makes me realise how vulnerable it is to love someone.

"Good. Do you know who they are?" Sherlock still sounds business like and Mycroft sits up and squares his shoulders, pocketing the handkerchief.

"Gus Freiman, I wasn't sure until now but I'm certain of it." Sherlock nods and I watch them both, how the details of the crime, the investigation brings them closer.

"What was Simon into?" I ask Mycroft gently. He smiles a thin smile.

"Me. Everything." His smile falters, "We'd been lovers for a year and I invited him to join the Rubber Ring. He met some people, we played some games, all harmless fun until Simon got into the kidnap scene." Sherlock nods again but all I can think is that Mycroft used the word lovers, just like Sherlock does, that Mycroft was in the Rubber Ring before Simon.

"Then he met Freiman? Who suggested he could provide something more interesting?" Mycroft nods.

"I don't think he knew what they were doing, I didn't know really, but I had some doubts. He must have found out though. It's why they've..." he trails off and drinks the rest of his whisky. "Thank you. Thank you for letting me just be here and feel this." He stands up and grabs his coat from the back of the chair. He runs his hand through his hair leaving it standing up and making him look younger and more vulnerable.

"Of course Mycroft, any time..." I don't know what else to say. Sherlock nods and puts his hand on Mycroft's arm. Briefly they look at each other and then Mycroft turns to go.

"Find them Sherlock." He says as he leaves. Sherlock nods again, his mouth a grim line. Mycroft opens the door and we hear his footsteps on the stairs.

Sherlock turns to me before I can speak. He crosses the room in three strides, stepping over the coffee table which is in his way. He grabs me and holds me tightly to his chest. I can hear his heart hammering through his ribs. With both hands he holds my cheeks and kisses me fiercely. His mouth trails hot kisses down my neck and into the neckline of my t-shirt while his hands roam over my chest. I am panting, disorientated. What is he doing?

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" he steps back briefly, his eyes are wild. "It's ok, I'm ok." He nods distractedly and I know what he is thinking. He's thinking what if that body wasn't Simon, what if it was me? What if he had lost what Mycroft has just lost? I kiss him gently. "It's ok." I soothe. Then we hear the front door slam and the sound of footsteps pounding up the stairs.

Lestrade bursts through the half open door and looks at us for a while longer than I think is necessary.

"Ahem," he gives a fake cough and we stand apart. Sherlock gets the whisky bottle and fills his glass and drinks it right down in one. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply for about a minute. Lestrade and I look at him.

"Family problems." I say and wave my glass at Lestrade but he shakes his head. "What's happened?" Lestrade sits in the chair recently vacated by Mycroft. He stretches out his legs and looks at the ceiling with an expression of exasperation.

I sit in the chair opposite and move the Union Jack cushion. Sherlock comes and leans on the mantelpiece.

"We've found the body of one of the Ukrainian boys. He's been pretty cut up. And there's another body but MI5 have taken it so we don't have a clue who it is." He rubs his hands over his face and sighs. "I was really hoping you two could shed some light on this."

"We can. John has successfully infiltrated the kidnapping ring and we're waiting for them to call him when they have something else planned." Lestrade looks at me like I just grew an extra head.

"You've infiltrated..? What the...? Ok, ok do I want to know?" he looks at me pleadingly. I shake my head.

"Probably not Geoff." He nods.

"Right don't tell me. You're sure it's the right lot you're in with?"We nod together and he purses his lips and frowns.

"So, do you know about this other body?" I look at Sherlock and Lestrade catches it. "Sherlock?" his tone is warning.

"It's someone connected to the Secret Service. We think he got too involved and tried to pull out." Lestrade looks from Sherlock to me and back again to Sherlock.

"And you're going to let him..." he doesn't finish the sentence and I'm glad because Sherlock's expression is not happy.

"Lestrade, if there was any indication that John would be in danger I would not be asking him to do this." He says through thin lips. "Once we know where they're going to be then we can hand it over to you." Lestrade looks at me. It occurs to me that we've not switched on the light and Lestrade's face is picked out in yellow and black shadows.

"John, are you sure about this? We could send one of the boys in? Someone trained." He looks pointedly at Sherlock who is stabbing the penknife holding the unopened post onto the mantelpiece in a vicious fashion. Before I can answer he turns and leans against the fireplace, it's a quick and aggressive action.

"Lestrade, Geoff, it's lovely that you want to look after John, really lovely but, I think you ought to know that he is going to be perfectly safe. With me." he ends closing his eyes in a long blink. It takes me a minute to register what he is saying but he seems to be implying that somehow Lestrade is interested in us beyond the case. Lestrade pinches his lips together and stands up angrily.

"Look Sherlock, we all know you've got this massive fucking brain and everything but this is John's life you're gambling with!" He turns to me and points his finger at Sherlock. "You want to think before you do everything he says John, he's not always right and two men are dead already!"

I blink at him; I've never seen Lestrade so angry, so frustrated. Sherlock is looking out of the window like nothing's happening. I nod at Lestrade.

"I won't. They're just going to phone me. Then we'll call you when I know the venue." He takes a deep breath through his nose and twists his mouth like he doesn't believe me. He looks at Sherlock who is still pointedly avoiding his gaze.

"Sherlock. Don't jeopardise the man you love just so you can be right." With this he grasps my shoulder and leaves. He stops at the door. "The Ukrainian boy was called Andrijj Domchek and he was sixteen." He looks at me, then to Sherlock who is still gazing out of the window. He sighs and we hear his feet running down the stairs.

We sit in silence. Sherlock doesn't look at me. I pour more whisky.

"Sherlock? You have to talk to me." he sighs and sits on the chair opposite me.

"Maybe he's right," he says. "Maybe Lestrade and Mycroft are right."

"What?" he's not making sense. He closes his eyes and steeples his fingers, his voice is tired.

"Maybe relationships are too dangerous. Look what it did to Mycroft. I've never seen him like that since Daddy..." he shakes his head. "Maybe you're better off without me. I'm dangerous John." he stands up and grabs his coat. I can't let him do this. I can't let him just say these things and leave. I stand up and grab his arm. He looks at me and it's like he's dead behind the eyes.

"Sherlock! For fuck's sake! Just listen to me. I am not a child. You aren't some all- fucking- knowing parent who can decide what's best for me. I've been to war for fuck's sake!" I shake my head, trying to clear it of the sing song voice saying 'this is it, it's all over.'

He looks at me and wipes a hand over his eyes, is he crying? No he can't be. I've never seen him cry. He doesn't cry. But in the dark of the room I can't really tell his expression. He starts to shrug my hand away.

"If you go now," my voice breaks and I shake my head. "If you go now it'll never be the same again. Because I can't trust you like I do if I think you're going to just walk away. Do it now and it'll always be an option, a threat." He stands perfectly still. My brain goes on overdrive, playing all the things we've done together in glorious Technicolor like my life flashing before me, or at least the best parts. I feel the lump in my throat, my nose prickles and my eyes feel hot.

He stands there for longer than is fair. I can see him breathing, his shoulders lift and drop and I try to burn him into my memory because if this is the last time we're together, really together, then I need to remember him.

The silence stretches out and it's more than my fragile ego can bear. I turn to go into the kitchen. If he's going to go now I can't stop him. I hear him follow me into the room, I don't know what he's doing but he's not leaving yet. The whiplash of emotion from despair to hope is choking me. I get out a new bottle from the cupboard. My head's going to fucking kill me tomorrow but I don't care. I open the fridge for the ice. Might as well do it properly

"John?" his voice is unsure. I turn and look at him in the gloom, the light from the fridge is blue and cold and I can't read his expression. I don't answer I just look. He puts out his hand and I don't know if he wants the bottle or me. He leans further and takes my hand.

"John?" he looks lost, like he doesn't know what to say. I've only seen him like this once, the time he reasoned himself around to telling me he loved me. He kisses my hand, his eyes don't leave mine. As I look at him one big tear rolls down his cheek, just one. All the emotion, the fear of never having him again wells up in me and I start to cry. He looks distraught.

"Oh god. I'm so... I'm..." he grabs me to him, kissing my face and I can taste tears in his kiss and I don't know if they're mine or his. He kisses me with ferocity, with fear in his touch. His hands are in my hair and he holds me tightly. I know that he cannot express how is feeling, what he just very nearly did to both of us. I know that this is the only way he can communicate what he needs me to know. But it's not my way. I pull back.

"Sherlock, tonight I've gone from perfect trust to the biggest dose of fear I think I've ever had." He looks at me; I can see he doesn't know what to do. "I can't just let this go without some kind of reassurance, restoring that trust." He nods, rubs his hand across his face, his lips.

"I know. And you deserve it too. John," he looks at me, right in the eye, the intensity is immense. It's like the world stops spinning and my heart stops beating. "I am sorry. I just couldn't bear you to get hurt, to be like Mycroft..." he shakes his head like he's trying to get rid of the memory. He breathes a deep breath like he's telling himself to just say it. "John, I promise you now I will never walk away again. You are too precious and too dear to me. If our relationship ever stops working it will not be my fault because I'm going to do everything I can to make it work until I die." Fucking hell. The last words are a bit rushed out, like he wants to say it before the logic side of his brain can take command. His eyes are wide and he looks just as surprised as I am. I take his face in my hands.

"I promise you too Sherlock." I kiss him and his hands slip from my shoulders down to my waist. We stand in the kitchen; me leaning slightly on the work surface, and kiss lazily, like we have all the time in the world. Our lips and tongues explore each other. My hands skim his chest and he moans as I trace past his nipples.

"Come to bed." He says to me gently, kissing my neck, my collar bone. I nod and let him take me by the hand.

**Got to be honest I have no idea what just happened! This was not supposed to be the chapter I was writing! But the boys just fell out.:/. Was it ok? Do yiu feel disorientated or did it fit in? I have no idea what you're going to say but I need to know. You've been great so far for reviews espec those of you who do every damn time and those of you who tell me you never review!**

**Like Sherlock I couldn't do it without my Baker Street Irregulars: PrincessNala (makes me laugh how you think I'm marking your reviews for originiality, fangiling is cool), Peachsilk (a treasure to know), Darmed (hope you're ok babes) Clubba Bear (went to the pub so I could write, bless you) Tasty- Kate(we're going to share fic genes transatlantic) , 2cajuman2(thanks for your lovely comments on the last two chapters espec. Does bold separate the A/N?)Tanya Zsa Zsa (back from Ibiza and already reading, thanks) ,Munchiees, Aelfric's cat(hope real life gives you back, do we need to send the Holmesmobile?), Nellyington (hoping laptop emergency is over) , mrs winny (nice to see you in the inbox, makes me smile) and Despairandcupcakechild (a star) and Mouserjb4 (are you back soon?), Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (who drew an awesome rubber ring pic here... ****http:/ jazzysatindoll. Deviant art. com/art /The-Case-of-the-Rub ber-Ring-1 79556 446****) ! **

**To OHOB who's been having fun and Reggie at the pub with Clubba, I love you! Cxx**


	12. Reparation

We lie on his bed; his body flush against mine, mouth to mouth, hip to hip. One of his hands is in the small of my back and the other clutches my hair. His eyes are wide open and focussed on me intently. His breathing is erratic and I can feel his heart pounding through my own ribs. His kisses are gentle; as though he is afraid he will break me. He nearly did.

Even though he lies so close and I want so much to believe him, believe what he said about trying with me until he died, I am hurt. The concept that he could leave had been so successfully scrubbed out of my world view by my experiences, my trust in him, and now I just don't know.

He knows this, I can see it in his gaze, pleading and imploring. It feels like he wants to wash it all away, burn it out with his passion, his heat. I don't know if he can.

He stops kissing me and he pulls back so he can see my whole expression. I know he is reading me, using his considerable intellect and prior knowledge to ascertain and divine my feelings, my mood. I sigh. He frowns. I bring up a hand and push his shoulders back slightly, away so I can breathe, feel my own space. I need to fucking think because my body and my heart want so much to believe him and my brain is not quite with them.

"Wait." I whisper and the streetlight across the bed highlights those startling cheekbones, those dark brows and sculpted lips as he grimaces and it's an expression of pain. I sigh, purse my lips, god, I don't want to hurt him, don't want to be doing this. I want so much for it all to be ok, like it was, just ignore the last half an hour and pretend it's never happened. But I can't and if I do pretend, it'll never go away. Not really.

He's waiting for me to speak. I shake my head, what can I say? How do I express this?

"I... I want to believe you, god Sherlock, I want so, so much to believe you. Ah. Fuck." I bite my lip, angry with myself and rub my hand through my hair, down my face, pressing my cheekbones with my thumb and forefinger, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Look, that scared me. What you did..." he nods; I've never seen him look so serious or so sad. "I want to just forget it but I can't. If I try to then... it won't ever really be sorted out. Does this make sense?" I look at him, willing him to understand but this is emotional stuff and, as much as he's come on in the last few months, I never know if he gets it exactly. He closes his eyes and nods. I put my hands on his cheeks, he opens his eyes.

"Sherlock, what happened back there? Because I don't think I could leave you even if I wanted to... and you were going to leave." I can't help it, my voice breaks, a look of pain flashes across his face and settles in his eyes.

"I wasn't going to leave for my own benefit John," his voice is deep and quiet, even in this emotional maelstrom it thrills through me. "I was leaving for you. Because I had put you in jeopardy. Again." He adds and sighs, annoyed with himself. "I wasn't leaving because I wanted to; I was leaving because it wasn't fair on you for me to stay." Twisted logic but logic nonetheless. What did I expect?

"Do you see it now Sherlock? Do you see that the decision is not yours to make?" I whisper and my voice sounds like it's coming from a deep hole and it's where I feel I am, in a deep hole with only a thin ray of light at the top. "I have chosen to stay with you. I have chosen this." I wave my hand down our bodies, trying to show him what I mean. He frowns. I hold his cheek and kiss him, trying to put everything into that meeting of our mouths. "This. I have chosen this, Sherlock. As a grown man. I have chosen you. It's not up to anyone else to protect me or make decisions for me. It's my life and I want to spend it with you." A thought occurs to me and it's a killer. "Unless... unless what you really want to say is that you don't choose me. Because... I mean, if that's the case then..." I sigh. If that's the case I will just go and walk into the Thames. If that's the case my life will never have anything good in it again. But I can't say those things because if he's staying with me for pity I can't let that happen.

He closes his eyes and we lie there in silence for what feels like a bloody long time. Maybe he will open them and tell me that he doesn't want this, doesn't choose me. And if that's so I savour the feeling of his long body against mine and his face in front of me because it's the last memory I want to have. It's the longest time of my life until he speaks again.

"I don't know how to tell you this John," his eyes are still shut, like he isn't admitting to what he is saying. "I can't find a way to make it sound real but... I don't know what I did before I knew you, how I lived, I mean. I try to remember and it doesn't work." he shakes his head and I can only imagine how exasperated this must make him feel. "I have never needed anyone, never wanted anyone and now it's all I am." His eyes open and he looks at me. "All I am is wanting and needing you John." he shrugs, shakes his head, I can see he's lost for words. It's not something I ever imagined could happen to him. He sighs and looks annoyed. "This is ridiculous!" he leaps up from the bed and begins pacing. This is more familiar, active, alert, irritated Sherlock.

He puts his hands on the sides of his head and shakes his head violently as though to dislodge something which is stuck. He kicks a pillow on the floor and it hits the bookshelf, something smashes. He goes to the window and leans against it, hands on the frame and forehead on the glass. I see another Sherlock reflected in the pane. He's a darker man, more fictional and nebulous. It's this Sherlock which speaks.

"I have cultivated not caring for people. From a young age I realised that not caring made it easier to be me. When I cared I got hurt, other people got hurt. So I stopped. I can't remember if it was easy because it became second nature." Sherlock in the reflection looks at me, his eyes are black.

"When I became a young man and I developed...needs, I dealt with them in an appropriate way. Luckily for me my desires seemed to be directed at my own gender and the emotional ties involved in sex were less... complicated." Dark Sherlock grins but it's without humour. "I didn't expect anyone to feel anything for me, not even desire really," he shrugs, "but when they did feel something I stepped away." He steps back from the glass as though demonstrating what he means. His image becomes incomplete, vague. He steps back, the reflection looks at me again.

"It got me by; I ascertained what I wanted, what I craved, without any complications. I learnt to please another person and what pleased me. When my conclusions were complete I moved on." He's not looking at me now; he's looking right into his own eyes, turning that gimlet stare on himself.

"I didn't get hurt because I didn't feel anything beyond the physical and when I felt a person starting to feel something I stopped it dead." His eyes flick to me. "Like Andrew."

More silence, it's cold in the room and I sit up and pull the duvet around myself. Reflection Sherlock is looking back at me.

"And then I met you. And I thought I could have a friend, albeit one who would never understand me, but someone who would tolerate me and accept me. And then there was the note in the tea jar." He sighs looking at himself like his dark half is confessing to himself.

"I knew as I wrote it that I meant it. Little things John," he shakes his head, "little things, like how you laughed, how your hand touched mine when you passed me a cup, how you looked at me. I lay awake at night, incapable of sleep for all the images of you crowding in on me, affecting me. I thought I was reading too much into those things and it scared me. So I wrote the note to frighten myself into doing something, getting away. Stepping back. But I couldn't do it and so the note stayed hidden until you found it. _I_ stayed hidden until you found it. And then you did something so much braver, so much more fantastical than I could ever have done. You opened up, you let me in." He closes his eyes, in the glass his hair is darker, the contours of his face more marked, he's like a dream.

"And I threw myself in. I drowned in you and your honesty, your openness. And now I can't do without you. I'll be half a man if you leave me." his eyes are open and he's looking at me again, those black eyes wide in the glass. I shake my head.

"But... you were leaving..." I can't make this square with what he's saying. How could he leave me if...? He shakes his hair from his eyes.

"I would be half a man for the rest of my life if it made you safe." The clock ticks in the lounge, a cab thrums down Baker St, all I can hear is my heart.

I stand up from the bed and cross the room. I stand behind him, looking at the Sherlock who has been speaking to me through the medium of the glass, half a Sherlock. The thought appals me; that this man, who is so vibrant and so alive, would reduce himself to a shadow for me.

"I don't want half a man, I don't want to _be_ half a man either, I want you." He doesn't turn, he closes his eyes and breathes out and I see the other Sherlock disappear in the mist from his breath. I put out my hand and touch his shoulder. I can feel his tiredness, his weariness. I put my arms around him and hug into his back, pressing my face against the contours of his shoulder blades.

We stand like that, I feel the heat of his skin through his thin top, the mesh is rough under my hands which are knotted over his solar plexus.

He turns and I open my arms, unsure of what he wants, what he needs. He leans back against the window and pulls me forward until I am leaning against him. I look up at him, I've never seen him so raw, all the things he keeps hidden away are on the surface of his eyes. I lift my face and kiss him, putting up my hands so I can hold his cheeks. We kiss and it's as though all the confusion, the emotional upheaval has fanned the fire within us. I can barely catch my breath. He shuts his eyes and he says my name.

"John, John, I want you too. You're the only thing I want." I can't wait any more; I pull him by his clothes back to the bed. He stumbles with me and there is serious intent in his eyes. I fall backwards onto the mattress, the crumpled duvet underneath my back and he lifts me so I am lying with my head on the pillow. It's a hurried, desperate gesture.

He lies beside me again, back where we were before we started this conversation. His hands run over me and I feel the crazy thrill of electricity everywhere he touches. He's like a blind man reading my body and I can feel his hunger. His face in next to mine.

"Trust me again John, please." I nod. I do, I cannot do anything else. It's as though trusting him is written into my genes, my DNA, it's woven into the fabric of my being. Even through the turmoil of before, my body and my heart still trusted him, my brain needed to be convinced. I nod and kiss him.

His lips on my skin scald me; I am convinced there will be marks on my cheeks, my neck. He pushes up my t shirt, over my head but my arms still in the short sleeves. It holds my arms, back and out of his way. His mouth traces a lava trail down my skin. He licks along the line to my navel and further. Nimble fingers are unfastening my jeans as he kisses along my erection through the denim. I am gasping, arching my back without realising. He pulls my jeans and shorts down over my hips and leaves me exposed, raw, wanting. He sits back on his heels and strips off the mesh top, pulls off my boots, his own. They thud onto the floor.

I need to touch him, to not be passive in this, to be an active partner and I try to reach towards him, the t-shirt hampers my movement and I half sit up and take it off. He grins with one side of his mouth, a quirking of the lips which is an astonishing turn on, and I smile back. He grabs each trouser leg by an ankle and yanks them down and off. They are thrown somewhere and he lies over me.

The soft leather of his trousers does nothing to hide his arousal. The smooth material skims my skin and teases my tender flesh. I push against him and he grinds down, forcing us closer. I am gasping, panting. I hear my own voice as though I am listening to someone else.

"God, Sherlock, please, please." He smiles at me a slow smile, a long blink of those penetrating eyes.

"I never thought I'd get to do this again." He murmurs, brushing his lips across the hard buds of my nipples. "I want to savour you." I lift my head, all modesty; all worry about the future, purged from me by this forest fire which is consuming me.

"Sherlock, just fuck me. Make me yours." He bites his lip and I can see the effect of my words on his breathing, his demeanour. He nods and gets off the bed. For a moment there is a terrible feeling of loss, his body heat and the comforting weight of him is gone. But it only serves to remind me of what I want, what I must have. He peels off the leather trousers, kicking the last inches from his leg and clambering back on the bed before they hit the floor. He pulls the duvet over his and lies across me.

We are still, the heat of his body burns me and I wonder if the sheets will bear the imprint of us after we are done. I can feel his hard cock throbbing against my thigh. I open my legs and he moves between them, lying over me, his weight on his elbows. His head hangs down and his dark curls fall over me. The smell of him is everywhere. The sandalwood scent, his hot skin, his arousal and it's overwhelming, intoxicating, I am drunk on Sherlock and it is my drug of choice. I cannot be without him and right now I want him as near to me as I can get.

I tug his hair and he smiles up at me, I can see him committing me to memory, storing me in that hard drive which has no time for the trivia other men think important.

"Come _on_, I want you now." I whisper to him. He rolls his hips against me, torturously slow and exquisite.

"Can this be a new start?" he whispers back. I shake my head, I don't want to undo all that we have done, take back the best weeks of my life.

"No. But it can be a new chapter." He smiles. I want to feel him filling me, owning me. But not like this... I shift and he lets me move. I turn over and look back at him, my cheek pressed into the pillow. I open myself to him.

At first his face registers surprise, then a darker, more sensual expression as he lifts my legs apart with those long fingers. My knees are on the bed and he spills the lube over us, the cold slipperiness warming as it meets the burning surface of my skin. I feel him push against me, feel my body opening to him, inviting him in. Slowly, slowly until he lies over me, until he is in me completely, he thrusts his hips. I am moaning, clutching the pillow with my hands as the burning pain becomes at first pleasure and then unbearable pleasure.

His head is next to mine and I watch him bite his lip as he pulls back and then flicks his hips forward. Seeing him like this I believe everything he has said. I can see his feelings for me written on those flickering eyelids, how his full red lips are pinched white by his sharp teeth, the way his dark hair hangs over his eyes.

"God, John, I'm never leaving. I couldn't..." each word is a thrust and a step nearer to that downhill plummet to orgasm. He grunts, the sound so animal, so uninhibited, that it starts me spinning. His hand worms beneath me and I arch from the bed to give him access to my cock but that pushes him further inside me and I cry out.

"Sherlock! Sherlock!" each word is punctuated by my hissed out breath.

"Be mine, John, always be mine." He says into my ear as he starts to come. I feel him inside me, almost as though he is me, and I feel myself tipping over the edge.

We lie, trying to catch our breath, trying not to move and destroy this union, this bond. I look at his face, peaceful and flushed. His hair sticks to his forehead and cheeks, plastered there by effort. He opens one eye and quirks his mouth again.

"Remember this John. Remember me right here," he wriggles slightly and I know what he means. "Just remember that this is where I want to be, this close, overlapping. I'm never going anywhere. I can't and I don't want to." He smiles a broad, wide smile and he inches forward to kiss me. I feel wrung out, my body heavy with satiated desire and my heart replete with assurances.

"I'll try." I say quietly. He nods.

It's getting hard to breathe with his body over mine, the tension between us dissolved. I move to breathe and he falls to the side of me, long leg hooked over my legs, hands stroking gently down my side. We stay like this, watching each other, I am drinking in the sight of the one thing which I need above all else. He is smiling. He's beautiful.

Without warning the thought of Mycroft comes to me. I close my eyes. He'll never have this again, never feel his lover's touch or hear his voice. Never lie there in the night and just look at him again. The cold wave of fear and sympathy washes over me and I lean forward and kiss Sherlock savagely. His eyes open in surprise.

"Let's never be so stupid again. I don't want to lose any chances I have to be with you, to experience you, to do everything with you." the words are forced out, rushed and heavy with the realisation of what I could lose, just like Mycroft. Sherlock nods, he understands.

"And when you say 'we' should never be so stupid again, you actually mean me don't you?" he grins. I nod.

"Yes I bloody do. You frightened me to death. You're an idiot." I shake my head.

"I am. Sorry." He nods, smiling ruefully. He traces a pattern of moles on my hip and then up to the scar on my shoulder and I let him explore. I am thinking about food, when was the last time we ate? What time is it anyway? I see him frown.

"What?" I prop myself on an elbow. The alarm clock says 4.30am.

"Do you think I upset Lestrade?" he twists his mouth. I chuckle.

"Yeah, I think we can safely say that." He grimaces and reaches behind himself onto the floor. His hand comes back with my phone. He dials.

"Lestrade? Yes it's me. What? No, no I haven't seen a clock. Why? Oh. Is it?" His eyebrows go up and he looks surprised. "Right, er... sorry. Well anyway, you're awake now." I chuckle and he looks at me questioningly. "What? Oh. Yes. I wanted to apologise for being an arse earlier. Really? Oh right. Well, sorry anyway. John said I was being an arse. Right. I'll tell him. What? Oh night then." He flicks off the call.

"Lestrade says that other people are not up all night having 'make up sex' and that next time I'm an arse he can wait until a decent hour for an apology." His face is blank as he relays the message. I laugh and stretch.

"Ok, message received and understood. Are you hungry?" Sherlock frowns, he's thinking. Then he nods. "Right, I'm going to make us some food. Are you coming or staying there?" he waggles his eyebrows and I realise the mistake I have made. "I mean are you accompanying me to the kitchen or are you staying in bed?" he grins and gets off the mattress in one lithe movement. I shake my head, laughing and he follows me out of the room.

"John?" I turn and he is captured by the streetlight, a devastatingly handsome alien creature, all angles and long limbs. He looks confused.

"Yes?"

"What's make up sex?"

**Once again this wasn't what I had planned. Don't be worrying that I have 'lost the plot, I haven't but some things needed readdressing bc the last chapter was a bit of a shock. I've said before how useful it is to hear what you all think and the last chapter's responses were really helpful. I guess you guys like angst huh? **

**It's been wonderful to have some new faces joining the regular gang. Thanks to those who have reviewed even though they don't usually or who don't have a login, I really appreciate all your comments and encouragement.**

**As always I have to thank The Baker St Irregulars! I am fortunate beyond my dessert at the support of: PrincessNala 3 , Peachsilk 3 , Darmed , Clubba Bear,Tasty- Kate , 2cajuman2,Tanya Zsa Zsa ,Munchiees, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny and Despairandcupcakechild and Mouserjb4, Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll! Love you!**

**Love my OHOB and my darling Reggie, Cxx**


	13. Observations

I wake up suddenly, a sharp noise startling me from my sleep. I fight the bedclothes as though trying not to drown and, as I surface, I realise that the sound is the shrill ringing of my mobile. I feel Sherlock's hands patting my body, the mattress, until he finds the phone. What is it doing in bed with us?

I am vaguely recollecting the phone call to Lestrade at 4.30 am, the way Sherlock threw the phone onto the bed when we went to get food. Did we move it when we got back to bed? Clearly not.

"Hmmm? Sherlock Holmes?" he sounds wide awake, I look at him through one eye. He is lying on his back, his hair is sticking up wildly, he looks about ten. One hand is behind his head and the other holding the phone. He turns and smiles at me. "Oh. Hello. Is it? Is it really? Ha ha." He laughs and looks at the clock. I look with him, it's 12.37pm. Bloody hell.

"Well, lovely. I think so. I'm sure he would. Yes, of course. Great. See you there." He throws the phone on the floor and I hear it bounce. I wince. I wrap my arm over his bare torso. He puts out his arm and I lift my head so he can put it under my head. We lie there, thinking our own thoughts, waking up together. Eventually curiosity gets the better of me.

"Who was that?" he looks down and grins.

"Laura. She's going with Art to Tate Modern and wondered if we wanted to come. We're having dinner with them too." I frown.

"Shouldn't we be worrying about Freiman?" I wonder aloud. He shakes his head.

"After the night he had," I grimace as I remember the Ukrainian boy and Eccles. "I think it'll be a couple of days until you hear from him." I sigh; I'm never going to be able to forget Mycroft's face last night. Sherlock pulls his arm away and swings his legs out of bed. He fumbles for the phone and sends a quick text. Then he throws it back down and goes to the bathroom without speaking. I know he isn't cross, just preoccupied. I hear the shower turn on.

I get out of bed and stretch. My muscles ache but it's that 'day after sex' ache which is a nice reminder. I'm not sore anywhere else, maybe a little tender. I pick the phone up and, feeling like a jealous wife, go to the folder for sent messages. I stop feeling guilty because I remind myself it's actually my phone.

There is one new message. It is to Mycroft. It simply reads. 'Will catch them. SH'. I look at the phone for a long time; I can feel the lump in my throat. They might have the strangest relationship between siblings that I've seen, and that's saying something. But they do care, underneath it all.

I wander into the bathroom and he's in the shower, eyes closed and humming to himself. I put the toilet seat down and sit and look at him. He stops humming and opens his eyes.

"It feels wrong not doing anything." I say, finally realising what is off beam with my mood today. He nods and starts to rub shampoo into his hair.

"We _are_ doing something John, we're socialising with just the people Freiman thinks we should be socialising with." I nod, I hadn't thought of that. The idea brings another on its heels.

"Do you think he's watching me?" the concept is alarming, especially now I know about Eccles' fate. He rinses the soapy bubbles from his hair.

"I would be, wouldn't you?" I suppose I would but the idea doesn't make it any better. I try to imagine what I'd be doing if I wasn't waiting for a call from a people trafficker.

"Sherlock, I need to go shopping." He opens one eye and regards me with a serious expression. "I need to buy some clothes." He quirks an eyebrow and nods.

"Are you requesting my presence on this adventure?" he asks drily, rubbing the sponge over his arms and shoulders. I think about this. This will either be a great idea or a disaster.

"What time are we meeting them?" I stand up and squirt toothpaste on my brush.

"Three." Before I brush my teeth I look at myself in the steamy mirror. Look at us, I think, like a married couple.

"You can come but try to be nice about it all, eh?" he chuckles and reaches for his toothbrush. We brush our teeth together. His brushing still sounds painful.

An hour later we're in Covent Garden. We've only been shopping for twenty minutes and five of those were walking here. I have three paper bags from Stuarts London, a shop I've never been in before but was my idea of shopping heaven.

I'm not a big one for retail to be honest. I pick up the odd thing when I need it, usually having no idea where to go until I get off the tube and stumble in to the nearest appropriate shop. Sherlock didn't even ask me where I wanted to go. He hailed a cab and told the driver to take us to Shepherd's Bush.

From outside the shop was unassuming but once inside I realised they specialised in the kind of retro clothing I had always fancied myself wearing but had never been brave, or savvy enough to wear. The assistant was polite and helpful without being over bearing and, after a couple of suggestions, Sherlock left me alone to decide what I wanted. In the end I chose two pairs of slim leg trousers as well as a pair of vintage Levis, a grey cable knit jumper also by Levi and another in blue with a bold red stripe across the chest. Two Fred Perry, retro check shirts and two new black t shirts. Still recognisably my style, a kind of understated country wear, but they are noticeably more elegant, more chic. All I need is some new boots and I'm done. It's the least stressful shopping trip I've ever been on.

Which is why we're in Covent Garden and Sherlock is bossing the lovely assistant around trying to find my size.

"Black. Black? John? Or do you think brown?" he's waving the boots in front of my face and I can't actually tell which is which. I'm not sure I care, we have used up my shopping enthusiasm quotient for the month. I shrug and he registers this and smiles at the poor girl who is tucking her hair back into its harassed ponytail. "Both, in size nine please." He goes to the till and gets out his wallet and pays for the boots.

"Ready?" he asks as he strides towards the door, the bag with the shoes swinging at his side. "So, was I nice enough?" he grins as we walk towards the river on our way to the gallery. I nod and shift the bags to a different hand.

"Yes, yes you were. Lovely. Thank you." he chuckles.

"I can't imagine what you thought I'd be like." He raises an eyebrow and looks at me sideways.

"Well. You didn't insist on coming into the changing room with me." he smirks.

"You sound disappointed John." I laugh, he's half right.

We walk across Millennium Bridge and I watch the brown sluggish water of the Thames churning beneath us. Tourists take photos and Londoners hurry past us. One of them, a man in a sharp suit looks at us both as he walks by. For some reason he catches my attention and I turn to watch him cross the bridge. Sherlock stops with me but he isn't looking back the way we've come. The man in the suit stops to speak to someone on the far side of the river, from here it looks like Damien, the tall blonde guy from Laura's party. I feel myself go cold.

"Sherlock?" he starts walking again.

"I know." His voice is low and then he links his arm in mine. "They'd be stupid not to watch us wouldn't they?" I nod, he's right, but the thought that they have been watching us at all makes me nervous. "Come on," he squeezes my arm and smiles at me. "Let's pretend we're normal." His expression is so madcap that I laugh.

Even though I'm not convinced about modern art, I love this building. The uninterrupted lines, the simple elegance of the high ceilinged rooms is liberating and fills me with a sense of freedom. There's something utilitarian but open about the space. It's helped by the fact that we don't have to pay, something which only reinforces the feeling that this building is for the people. It's busy, as you'd expect, and the place is surrounded in a hum of people speaking.

A school group goes by, the teacher counting the children silently as they file onto the escalator. Her students have notepads and seem to be interested in their little maps of the gallery. Two boys scuffling at the end are given a stern look as she 'Bo Peeps' them onto the moving stairway.

The glass sided shop is crowded and Sherlock steers me to the cloakroom where we deposit our bags and coats and go to look for Laura and Art. It's strange to see him out without his heavy overcoat but it's pleasantly warm in the gallery, the glass and lights making the place seem airy and comfortable. As he strides across the floor people glance at him and I am reminded again of how striking a figure he is. The escalator takes us up and we step onto the next level.

Small shoals of tourist follow their guides, listening intently to their commentary and moving in unison from room to room. Couples stroll hand in hand, sharing their views on what they have seen but not everyone is accompanied. There are individuals, listening to their headsets and seriously studying the art on their own. The gallery has a feel of camaraderie that everyone is here to learn, observe and quietly enjoy themselves.

"Where are we meeting them?" I ask Sherlock as he directs me to another escalator. He looks at us reflected in the glass which surrounds us, John and Sherlock mirrored many times in the panes of the shiny walls. He smiles and three more Sherlocks smile back at him.

"Third floor, Anish Kapoor, Ishi's Light." I frown, not sure what he means but he alights carefully and takes my hand as we enter the first room. Before me is a giant structure. It's like an egg with the top and bottom removed, a large slice cut down its centre so that we can stand inside it. The interior is a deep red lacquer, shiny and organic. We look at ourselves distorted by the concave walls of the 'egg'. Our faces and hands are a deep pink, reflected in the crimson sheen. Our bodies, nearly so dark we cannot see them are ghostly and vague. Sherlock is still holding my hand and our bodies join and flare apart where the light bends from the shape of the structure.

"Wow." I breathe and Sherlock smiles. "Do you know anything about it?" I ask him not taking my eyes off the John in the dim red gleam. I see him shake his head.

"No, but I like how the light is gathered into that long stripe." He points with his hand, running his fingers up and down the length of the egg. "Is it supposed to be a womb? I laugh.

"Tidiest womb I've ever seen." We chuckle and step out of the shape to look at it again. I walk around the other side. Its converse back is smooth and white. The little tag on the wall says it's made from resin. I wonder briefly who Ishi is and why this is their light. When I walk back around the egg Laura and Art are with Sherlock. They both smile at me broadly.

"Hello." Art grabs my arm and kisses my cheek enthusiastically. "Nice to see you again John."

"Hi sweetie," Laura kisses me too and then hugs me as though she's just realised that she can. I hug back. People often don't take me for a hugger but secretly I am.

"Isn't this amazing?" I ask, gesturing to the egg. "No idea what it's about or for but... wow." Laura laughs.

"See? That's what I was just saying to Art who, ironically for his name, is the biggest philistine I've ever met," we all laugh and Art laughs the loudest. "It's not about use, or even meaning sometimes, it's just about the pretty."

"I'm glad you said that, I really have no idea. Always found these places a little intimidating to be honest." Laura nods and I feel a little better about my ignorance.

We wander through this level, looking at the pictures, the sculptures and trying to guess what they represent before Laura makes Sherlock read the tags out in his best 'culture' voice and we laugh at our silly suggestions.

"It's a fried egg!" exclaims Art of one piece which turns out to be a mother and child. Even Sherlock is laughing and it's the most relaxed I think I've ever seen him. We board the escalator to the next floor. Laura is on the step above and she turns and, leaning her elbow on the rail, looks at us.

"So did you have fun when you got home boys? I haven't had chance to check John's ankles yet!" I laugh and Sherlock sighs theatrically.

"I'm afraid not. We had two visitors and didn't get round to the evening's proposed fun." He shrugs and Laura pulls a dramatic face of disappointment.

"Oh poor you, that's no good. Rose, Art and I spent a good hour imagining what was going on back at your place." She waggles her eyebrow at Art who collapses against the rail giggling.

"I owe you money then Laura." He wheezes and she grins and glides off the metal steps as they disappear into the floor.

"Money? You had a bet on? What about?" I catch up with her as she walks towards one of the paid exhibitions; she has her purse from her small bag and is clearly paying our entry fee.

"Oh I said that _you_ would be in the bars and Art said Sherlock enjoyed himself too much to let someone else have a go." She giggles and I laugh too. "And then Art said we should phone and ask if we could watch. You're both too pretty to go to waste like that!" It occurs to me that it should feel strange that they were guessing about our sex lives but it's all so good natured and open that it really doesn't bother me. New John, I smile to myself.

"Oh priceless!" Art is pointing up at the wall where the name of the exhibition is displayed in large pink cut out letters. 'EXPOSED, voyeurism, surveillance and the camera' is the title. "I'll bet it's not as exciting as the view we had planned last night!" I shake my head and look at Sherlock who is smiling good naturedly.

"Well, if I see anything I recognise then I'll be sure to inform you." he says to Art who is still giggling.

We go inside, the large, white room is full of pictures and TV screens. As we pass a bank of them I notice that it shows us walking by. I look for the camera and see a number of them dotted in the ceiling of the room. I try to guess which of them is filming us now from the angle of the shot. We all stop to look at ourselves. The urge to mug about, to pull faces or be silly is almost unbearable and I see that the school party have given in to this urge at the next bank of screens. The teacher is looking exasperated but is laughing with them.

Laura is checking the back of her dress in one of the cameras lenses, Art is surreptitiously checking out an androgynous figure who is sketching in the far corner of the room. I glance sideways at Sherlock and he is looking at me. On impulse I grab him and kiss him. No one cares; they're all looking at the art. Out of the corner of my eye I sneak a glance at the screens. The height difference shocks me at first, I never imagined him to be so tall! Then I notice his hands looped about my waist and how those long fingers clutch my body, indenting the cable of my jumper. There's something erotic, forbidden about watching us like this and, for a moment, I wonder what it'd be like to film ourselves. I lean in to kiss him again and I notice that Sherlock is watching us on the screen too. A frisson of excitement thrills through me, I feel my body starting to respond to this illicit and wicked moment. Is this another boundary to push?

Any more thought on this subject is swept away when I notice the man from the bridge is also caught by the camera, watching us both intently. I move to nibble Sherlock's ear and I feel rather than see his eyebrows rise at my actions.

"Behind us, near the door." I murmur and I see his eyes swivel in the direction I have indicated.

"Mmm." He mumbles and kisses me again. We break apart and walk to where Laura and Art are standing in front of a set of black and white pictures. They seem to have been taken in the 30's or 40's and show various people. Some are women, undressed and lounging on chairs, I guess from their relaxed attitude to their nudity and the voluptuousness of their figures that they are strippers or prostitutes waiting between clients. In one photograph a woman is reflected in the glass walls of a cafe, she is about to kiss another person but we can only see the back of their head. Is it a man or a woman? The photo is unclear and I suppose this raises the forbidden element of the shot.

My favourite is one of a couple in a cinema. It's clearly been taken in the dark and around them the audience is intent on the screen while the couple are kissing passionately. The woman's feet are on the seat in front of her and they are bare, she has clearly kicked off her shoes and there's something erotic and sexy about it. The image is made all the more surreal by the fact that the rest of the audience are wearing those silly cardboard 3d glasses.

The woman's blouse is made of a see through material and the man's hand clutches her shoulder fiercely through the thin fabric. Even though everyone else seems to be focussed on the screen one boy behind them is clearly watching them as they embrace. Next to my similar revelation about seeing Sherlock and I on film the picture is alarmingly arousing.

"Mmm, I like this one." Laura is beside me now and she points a crimson nail at the photo. I nod. Both of us look at it for a moment longer. "She's taken her shoes off." She observes.

"Why does that make it sexier?" I ask, "Feet aren't sexy." She raises a perfect eyebrow.

"I know some people who would certainly disagree with that comment John," she grins. "Anyway I think it's because she's in public but she's made herself all comfortable. I don't suppose women took their shoes off in public in those days." I nod, I suppose she's right. She wanders off to look at another photo.

After about ten minutes we find ourselves standing back at the bank of screens. The suited man has gone, or at least I can't see him and Art is the last of us to reconvene.

"I'm hungry." He mock whines and Laura grins and pats his head.

"Ok darling, we can go and eat now. Is that ok boys?" she looks at us and we both nod.

Laura leads the way; Sherlock is discussing art with her I think. I vaguely hear him talking about cameras and observations and she is nodding and agreeing with him. I find myself walking with Art.

"So, John. You're an army doctor, Laura says. That must have been gruesome." He shudders and I nod.

"Sometimes. Yes, sometimes it was." I really don't want to spoil the buzz I have this afternoon dwelling on some of the things I have seen. He nods and seems to sense my mood.

"Oh I wish I had a career John, a vocation." I look at him, he sounds like he means it.

"What do you do Art?" I ask him, looking at him properly for the first time. His dark golden hair is short, in a style that reminds me of Greek statues, in fact there's something about him that seems very classical. He has a dimple right in the middle of his chin which almost renders his face too perfect to be manly. His full lips have a perfect Cupid's bow and I find myself contrasting his mouth with Sherlock's. Both are full and sensual but where Sherlock's lips are pointed and precise, Art's curve in an almost feminine way. His eyes are a vivid blue and his brows are golden blonde and thick, tapering to the edges. His cheekbones are high and give him the air of aristocracy which Sherlock has revealed to be his background. In isolation any of his features would be a stunning asset to a woman's face but together he carries them off as a slightly androgynous but, still masculine, youth. I've noticed people looking at him, mainly men but some women seem to be attracted to his exotic looks. He looks at me sideways and laughs.

"What do I do? Get drunk, get tied up, have fun, spend Daddy's money! Only for god's sake don't tell him. He's an absolute monster!" he grins but I have a feeling he might be disguising the truth as a jest.

"How do you know Laura?" I ask, watching the lady in question keeping pace with Sherlock's long strides in her red skyscraper heels.

"Oh, we've known each other forever. Since we were children. Our parents knew each other and she used to come on holiday to the house in Scotland with us. I suppose I'm closer to her than I am my family."

"And Sherlock?" he chuckles.

"Ah ha! Now we get to the real question!" I laugh and nod, admitting my ruse. He grins and tucks his arm in mine. "Well, I met him just after Laura's met him, although I didn't know she'd met him. I just saw this gorgeous alien creature... what?" I am laughing.

"Nothing... it's what I always think of him too, it was just funny that you used that expression." He grins.

"Well, all those limbs and that brain, grrr." He mock growls and we both laugh. Sherlock turns his head and raises his eyebrow. I smile at him and Art waves. He frowns and turns back to his conversation with Laura.

"Anyway, I was after him for such a long time...you're not the jealous type are you John?" he looks at me, head on one side, gauging my reactions. I shake my head and shrug.

"No idea Art. Guess we'll work it out if I punch you!" I laugh to show I am joking and he grins.

"Ok, deal. Well he was having none of it. Awkward bugger. I was thinking he was probably a virgin and a bit scared off." He laughs loudly and I can just see Sherlock's ears twitching. "And then I found out Laura and Rose knew him and I got them to introduce us. Turns out they'd all been playing together for months. Bitches." He sniggers and I laugh, his candour is very funny.

"So did you ever, you know... did you get to...?" I try not to make too big a deal of it. Art looks at me sideways, figuring me out.

"Once. Sort of. Not really." I frown, he sighs. "He was a bit drunk... well actually too drunk, if you know what I mean?" he pulls a regretful face and I smile. "I finally got him to agree to take his clothes off, I skip off to the bedroom to get some things, I come back and he's sound asleep on the sofa. He's like the dead to wake. Oh, I suppose you know that!" he chuckles and I nod. for some reason the idea of the disappointed face of Art as he observes the object of his lust zonked out on the sofa is hilarious and I start to giggle. His expression is mock offence and then he laughs too. We are laughing so much we're wheezing and Sherlock finally; unable to stand his curiosity any longer, whirls on us. This just makes us giggle more. Art is pointing at Sherlock's confused face and tears are streaming down his cheeks. Laura turns and smiles quietly.

"Not the 'Sherlock drunk on the sofa story' Art? Again? When are you going to get over that one?" she grins as her words reduce us to more paroxysms of hilarity.

People are starting to stare and we pull ourselves together. I am careful not to catch Art's eye as I can still see his shoulder's shaking with mirth.

"Where are we going to eat?" I ask Laura as we blink our way into the sunshine outside.

"Thought we'd go back to mine," she says as she hails a cab from the concrete plaza at the bottom of the steps. "Then I can lend Sherlock that camera equipment he wanted to borrow." What? I look at Sherlock who is grinning evilly, Art begins to laugh again.

**Ok, so I hated this chapter when I started it but now I feel a little better about it. All the things in the Tate Modern are really there and you can google them I imagine, or goand see for yourself if you're inclined. **** I needed to have some time to let things settle with the boys before Gus rings John so I hope you aren't distracted from the story. Please let me know what you thought of this one. For some reason I feel quite unsure about it...**

**As always I must profess my love for The Baker St Irregulars! These fics wouldn't be here if it was not for: PrincessNala (thanks for the confidence boost), Peachsilk , Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa ,Munchiees (Yay! Nice to have you back!), Aelfric's cat (soggy Bach fan), Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll (really, look for her on deviantart) ! you're treasures and I am honoured to have met you!**

**Love my OHOB and my darling Reggie, Cxx**


	14. Going Deeper

"So, then he asks me if I know Sherlock Holmes!" Art's voice is mock outrage and his expression so humorous that we fall about laughing. Only Sherlock is looking serious, one eyebrow raised.

"You mean to say that, after spending the entire night with you he asked about me?" He shakes his head and I can't tell if it's in apology to Art or in astonishment at Andrew's manners. Art nods and rolls his eyes.

"He literally turned over and said," he lowers his eyebrows and does a fair impression of the tall surfer boy, "so, Art do you know Sherlock? What a bloody come down." Laura is still giggling as she tops up my glass.

"I did mention that he was a little obsessed Art. But you seemed a bit distracted."

"Distracted?" Art's eyebrows are practically in his hairline, he turns to me for support, "John, have you seen the man?" I nod, still laughing. "Well, there you go then. Distracted, yes miss, I bloody well was. Cock blind." I have just taken a sip of my drink and I fight not to spit it on the tablecloth at his last comment. Laura shrieks with laughter and Sherlock bangs me on the back.

"What did you do to him?" I ask Sherlock, my eyes wide. He frowns, he's thinking. Laura looks at me warningly, is he going to answer that?

"Nothing unusual," he begins, then stops, "well..." Laura interrupts and I'm grateful, my brain wasn't working quickly enough to stop him.

"I don't think he'd met anyone quite like you Sherlock," his head cocks on one side. "You're rather..." she trails off.

"Intense?" I offer and she smiles.

"Fucking intense?" says Art in a copy of my voice. We all laugh except for Sherlock. He's still frowning.

"And he's still interested in me? Even when I've told him?" he shakes his head again. We look at him and it all goes quiet. Then Art starts laughing again, almost unable to control himself.

"What?" Sherlock, Laura and I voice the question in unison. Art is giggling.

"I was just thinking... oh god, do you remember Laura...?" she frowns and looks at me. Art looks at me.

"He said he's not the jealous type." He tells her, I smirk.

"I actually said I wasn't sure but..." I sigh, "Go on." I'm guessing he'll tell the story anyway.

"Do you remember that party Laura? When that policeman called for Sherlock? And you thought it was that bondage guy and it was _really_ a policeman?" he snorts and Laura is giggling, their humour is infectious, I am grinning, Sherlock's mouth is quirked at the side.

"And then he insisted you interrupt Sherlock?" he shakes his head like the story is too funny for him, Laura takes up the tale.

"So I go to the room which I know Sherlock's in and I knock." She is smiling.

"And Sherlock tells you to go away!" Art is banging the table.

"So I tell him there's a policeman. And the policeman," she grins.

"Who's' right behind you, looking over your shoulder," Art and Laura swap the tale about.

"Shouts, 'Holmes get your arse out here man!'" I look at Sherlock.

"Lestrade?" I ask, he nods once still sort of smiling. "And..."

"Sherlock opens the door with only his shorts on and just gets dressed as they walk down the corridor."

"Not before the policeman gets a proper eyeful of Andrew bent over the whipping bench, stark bollock naked!" Laura and Art slap hands and laugh hysterically. I laugh, I can just imagine Lestrade's face and, though I don't like the idea of Sherlock and Andrew, I hold on to what he said about our relationship not being an experiment. Sherlock winces.

"It wasn't an ideal situation really." He states bluntly. Laura can hardly breathe and Art is coughing.

"Not really," I agree and look at him with affection; he can be such a twit. I turn to Art, "so he slept with you to see if you knew Sherlock?" It seems extreme even though I've met the man.

"No sweetheart, he slept with me because I'm fucking gorgeous but he did want to know about the Brain." He grins and I chuckle at his nickname for Sherlock.

The conversation turns to other subjects, they discuss some people I don't know and it's interesting to hear Sherlock's analysis of some of their acquaintances.

"You do realise he has a wife at home?" he observes of a man they are discussing. Art looks horrified.

"Steven? Steven has a _wife_? Sherlock, darling, the man is gayer than I am. And I'm gay, if you hadn't noticed." He says to me as though it's a confidential aside. I chuckle. Sherlock shakes his head.

"No, married I'm afraid." He says and Laura frowns.

"Wedding ring mark on his finger?" Sherlock smiles.

"Faintly, but that wasn't what gave it away." He waits until we are all agog; he's such a show off.

"So, Brain, come on, tell all." Art has no patience; I'd have let Sherlock stew a little longer.

"It's simple really. He has long blonde hairs stuck on the seat belt in his car and the mirror in the driver's side sun visor shows constant use. A woman uses his car often. Then, when he gets in it, he always adjusts the mirrors, it's a reflex, he's used to someone else driving his car, no one lets their friends drive their car all the time, so much that you have a habit of checking the mirrors' positions. It could be a long term girlfriend but I'm guessing wife."

Art and Laura raise their eyebrows at each other. I smile.

"Hang on, when've you been in his car?" Art asks. We look at Sherlock. He twists his mouth. My phone beeps. I flash a glance at Sherlock and leave the table.

Out in the hall my hand is shaking. I pull the phone from my pocket and tentatively unlock the screen. I have one message. It's from Lestrade. I sigh and realise I have been holding my breath.

"Freiman up to something. Spent today at dockyards. Think he'll be in touch soon." It reads. I stand for a minute and try to calm my heartbeat. I think, that for a moment, in the fun and laughter of Art and Laura's company I had forgotten the danger I am in. I go back into the summer room.

"Everything ok?" Laura asks me, she frowns in concern. I nod.

"Yeah, just a policeman for Sherlock." I grin, Sherlock's shoulders fall; I think he was actually looking forward to it being Freiman. Laura and Art laugh. Sherlock is watching me, gauging my mood.

"Disappointed John? Are you waiting for a call?" Art asks, I nod but say nothing.

"Maybe Sherlock can distract you for a bit?" Laura smiles at us both. I look at him; a grin is spreading across his face. I chuckle. He looks at his watch.

"7.34," he says, "plenty of time to get home and get those bars out." I don't know what to say and I presume my face communicates this because Laura and Art laugh.

"It might just be the preoccupation you need John." Art says, Laura and Sherlock nod as though we're discussing me taking up meditation. I shake my head laughing.

"You lot are so biased." I grin. Sherlock stands up and stretches like he's going to need his muscles. Bloody hell.

"I'll get that camera stuff you wanted." Laura smiles and stands up from the table. I look at Sherlock.

Sherlock lugs the heavy black camera back into the cab and I tell the driver where we're going. I'm trying not to think about the bag but the thing is huge, Sherlock props his feet on it as we set off.

"So, what did Lestrade say?" he asks me, fiddling with the handle of the bag which he has wrapped over his knee to stop it swinging about as we take corners. I take the phone out of my pocket and show him the text. He nods and looks out of the window. He's thinking.

"Do you think it means they've kidnapped someone else?" I ask, this has been eating away at me, my conscience picking at me while we ate and laughed tonight. He shrugs and wipes his hand over his face. We sit in silence, Sherlock intent on the city passing us by.

"Would CCTV be as much of a turn on as the video camera?" he asks me suddenly, turning those blue eyes on me and smiling. I gulp.

"God Sherlock. No, no. No way. No." I think I've made my point, he grins.

"But it's ok if we film ourselves?" it's my turn to look out of the window, it's dark and all I can see is my own face in the passing buildings. Is it ok I wonder? There's something forbidden about it, something which is like leaving on the lights and that turns me on. The mention of the idea is making my blood pound. I can imagine us on the bed, or maybe the sofa, or against the door. Come on John. And the camera watching us... I swallow. And I nod.

"And we can watch it afterwards right?" he's pushing it and he knows it. Can I do that? Can I sit there, in the picture in my head Sherlock and I have popcorn as we watch the film, and watch myself with him. Dear god, I think I can. I don't say anything and I nod again, a little more tentatively. He claps his hands. Jesus.

When we get back to Baker St he stops as he opens the door. He turns to me, hands still on the key in the lock.

"John am I in charge tonight?" his voice is dark and his expression serious. I bite the inside of my lip and nod. "Good." He blinks slowly and unlocks the door. He steps over the neglected post and makes for the stairs, unlocking our door and then swinging it open for me, stepping back as I go in. I reach for the light switch, it's a reflex but he has his hand over it and he closes the door and puts on one of the lamps. The soft amber glow of the shade makes the room seem warm.

I have my back to him and he spins me round slowly, his hands on my shoulders. He kisses me and he's gentle at first, becoming more impatient and demanding as my breathing becomes more erratic and my heart beats faster.

"Are you going to do as I say John?" he whispers to me, his voice is a turn on even in the most inopportune moments but like this its impact on my physical state is frightening. The intensity, the command in his words, makes my knees weak. I nod. "Then I think you should show me how much you want to make me happy," he pauses just long enough to have me wondering, "With your mouth please." That last word, so incongruous with his demanding tone has my mind spinning. I try not to think too much, to rationalise the game we are playing. After all, I've followed orders before; from men I had less respect for than I do for Sherlock. I drop to my knees obediently.

He doesn't say anything so I reach up and unfasten his trousers. He's already aroused and the feel of him through the fabric communicates itself to my own body and I feel myself harden. I stroke him through his shorts, listening to his long slow breathing in the rhythm of my hands. He moans languorously and leans back against the wall, pushing his hips forward. I can feel his impatience as he hisses through his teeth and I don't hurry my movements, wondering what he will do.

I don't have to wait long, his long fingers twine themselves in my hair and he pulls back, my neck muscles taut. It doesn't hurt me but I am surprised, I didn't expect it. With his free hand he pulls down his shorts hurriedly and pulls my mouth against him. His velvet smooth skin, hot and hard, brushes my lips and I give an involuntary groan. He uses the hand in my hair to pull me along the length of him, using my mouth for his pleasure. There's something wildly erotic at him using me, satisfying his needs with my body as though he has no regard for how I feel. And in the back of my head I know he knows this and he's doing it for me too. The idea is complex and confusing and is pushed from my mind as he pushes himself between my lips, using his fingers to open my mouth.

He swirls the head of his cock just inside my mouth, I taste him, salty on the tip of my tongue. I look up and his head is thrown back, his mouth open. He looks like he's enjoying himself and it makes me happy, proud that I can make him feel that way. He gives me just the tip, teasing my lips like a lip gloss and then, inch by inch, thrusting against me. The less he gives me the more I want.

I never imagined wanting to do this with a man, for a man, but Sherlock is not just anyone. I listen to him growling in his chest as he pulls away and then pushes back, right into me, filling my mouth with the taste of him and I relish it, this extraordinary lack of power inside which I have control over him. I can feel him getting closer to orgasm and I flick my tongue against him, making my lips tighter around him. The grip in my hair becomes sharper, more intense and this communicates itself to my actions.

He is bucking forward and I can hear him moaning my name when he pulls away. He leans against the wall, panting and he holds my head away from him. I can't look up so I look at his hard cock, slick and hard right in front of my eyes. It reminds me that my own erection is painfully confined in my jeans.

"Fireplace." he almost growls and I stand up, feeling my knees protesting at the injustice of my sudden movement. I walk to the fireplace but am unsure what he wants me to do. He pushes me so I face the wall and my hands come up to brace myself against the chimney breast. I feel like I've been arrested. He runs his hand down my front, over my nipples through the jumper kit and down to my cock. He teases and squeezes his way down until I am panting and desperate. His mouth is at my ear.

"Stay right there." He moves to the side of me and switches off the lamp. Then he opens the camera box. Should I stop him, complain? I don't think I can. He sets the camera up, looking through the lens briefly when he's set it on the tripod. He nods to himself and presses a button. The machine begins to make a high shining sound. I turn my head away, what are you supposed to do? I hate cameras, photos at the best of times; this is not one of those. He crosses back to me via the sofa. He has a bar in his hands. He turns me around and kisses me, his hands under my jumper, nipping and caressing. Any nerves or concerns I had are chased away by the electricity flowing down my body at his touch. I keep forgetting about the camera. I realise that this is his plan. He steps back when he considers me warmed up.

"Take off your clothes." Nothing more than this line and I am trembling. His voice is dark and in it there is an element of command. This is less of a game than his kidnapping but more of a game because of the camera, the bar.

I pull off my jumper and drop it on the floor, then my t shirt. He is looking at me, appraising me like he is judging, assessing. It makes me shiver and he knows it. His mouth twists into a smirk. There is moment of tension; I don't take off my trousers. Some long buried rebel part of John Watson thinking what can he do if I don't comply.

"Take them off John." I bite my lip and look at him. He leaves a long minute. "Of course if you're saying you don't want me to fuck you, hard, with the bar and the camera on then..." he shrugs. Damn him. He has a double win. When I take these jeans off it's admitting that that is _just_ what I want. I shake my head and unfasten my fly buttons. He smiles.

I pull my rousers down and kick them off. He raises his eyebrows and I know he's telling me the shorts have to go too. Damn. I sigh and push out a long breath and then I take them off. He looks me over. It's long stare, it makes me feel so much more exposed, not helped by my now painfully obvious erection.

"Nice." He nods and bites his lip, it's an expression I've seen him use on murder scenes which get his interest. I sigh. "Touch yourself." What? He has to be kidding, touch myself, with him watching, with the camera focussed on me? I frown and purse my lips. I shake my head a little, uncertain even myself if I am refusing. He cocks his head. His expression says it all. If I don't comply then... fine. We'll just do something else, watch TV or read a book or shoot the wall again. Fucking hell. The man is a monster.

Biting my kip and closing my eyes I run my hand over my hip, tentative and self conscious. It occurs to me that, if I imagine this to be his hand then this might not be so awful. I brush against my hard on, and I moan. God. Didn't mean to do that. After a moment of gentle, light touches I get bolder, made brave by the sensation flooding my body. I squeeze myself and moan again; maybe I even say his name. I am beyond caring. I imagine those long, tapering fingers flickering over my tormented skin.

"Open your eyes, look at me John." oh god. I can't.

"Look at me John." I grimace, screw up my face and open my eyes. His expression is almost feral and he watches me hungrily. I slow my hand and he shakes his head. I moan again as I increase the pressure of my fingers. I can feel the tightness in my lower stomach, the fizzing building of my orgasm. His eyes burn into me, he licks his lips slowly. I am going to come...

"Stop." I can't, I won't. "Stop John." he uses my name and it pulls me up short. I take my hands away quickly as though removing the temptation.

He comes towards me and runs a hand down my body. From my shoulder down to my hip his long fingers trace my skin, my scars. He watches my reaction and I realise his Dom persona is so different than mine. His control is all in the mind. It would be. The hand on my hip skims near the place I want him to touch me. He trails am lazy hand through the hair which curls between my legs; his fingers leave a path of fire over my skin. I can't help it, I moan, even to me it sounds abandoned, desperate. He smiles again.

"Turn around." I obey him, glad for a moment to be out of his direct line of sigh until I realise that my face is now towards the camera, the side angle of my body exposed. I feel him trace his hands down my legs and something wide and soft is clipped against my ankle. I look down and it's a cuff, a broad black leather cuff, with a silver loop. My heart starts to beat faster and my breathing is jumping about. The blood is pounding in me, centred between my legs. I feel him clip on the other cuff.

He runs his hands back up over my thighs as he stands behind me, I will him to touch me but he doesn't even go near. I am in an agony of suspense. He leans himself against me, pushing me against the wall. I feel him against my buttocks; he's kicked off his trousers and short and taken off his shirt. His skin scorches my flesh where he touches. I feel how hard he is, his breath on my neck. All this tension, this waiting has me in an ecstasy of longing. Just get on with it I want to plead. But I can't.

After rubbing himself slowly against me, tormenting me with the hot touch of his flesh he kneels down and attaches the bar to the silver hoops. As he shifts the telescopic section of the bar I am forced to open my legs wide. This in turns pushes my upper body forward until I am resting my hands on the mantelpiece. It becomes obvious why he has chosen this spot. He won't have to bend or adjust his height to be inside me, the bar puts me in just the right position for him to gain entrance.

I feel so exposed, the bar and the camera combining to open me wide strip me down to my barest elements for his perusal. It's terrifying and utterly thrilling. I feel the cold slip of the lube over my skin, feel it dripping down my legs and how the angle of my body trails it along my cock and balls. He runs a hand over my buttocks.

"Oh John," his voice is that dark, seductive tone which make me tremble. "I'm going to enjoy this." There's something sensual, honest about his voice and I know he means it.

I feel him push against me and I grip the smooth surface of the mantelpiece. One hard thrust and he is in me, I pull back my head and cry out, my hand slips and ornaments, envelopes fall onto the floor. He is still; I feel my pulse around him, his hard flesh throbbing inside me. He is panting, his head hangs over my back and his hair brushes my skin.

He moves again, a slow pushing in and pulling out which has me moaning, mumbling his name. His hand is on my shoulder, the other on my hip. The bars spread me wide for him, he is deep inside me and I feel myself impaled on him. The hand on my hip slips to slide across my cock, I jerk forward, an involuntary movement which makes his push against me harder.

"John, oh god..." I am going to come. I tell him, barely getting the words out because the hand on my shoulder grabs my jaw and turns my face towards the camera.

"Open your eyes. Show me." he says fiercely. I can't do anything but what he tells me. I look into the black eye of the lense and I feel myself unravel. I scream his name; I promise him anything, I tell him he's a genius, that I belong to him, that I love him. I feel his thrusts become erratic, desperate and he shouts as he comes. A long, wild cry, wordless but full of emotion.

He moves away and clicks off the camera, hurrying back to touch me, reassure me with his hands. He holds me and then he unclips the bar. He sits down on the floor pulling the blanket from the armchair and wrapping us both in its folds. He kisses my forehead and notices I am shivering.

"Adrenaline come down." I grin, not feeling the embarrassment I had expected to feel but rather elation, like I have crossed a bridge, won a battle. He nods smiling.

"Tea? Biscuits?" he chuckles and unfolds himself from me, padding into the kitchen on those long, bare feet.

I watch him, naked, unselfconsciously rummaging in the biscuit tin, getting out tea bags. I realise how comfortable we are together and how I have never felt this way with anyone else. Across the room I hear a noise. It gets louder and louder and Sherlock turns and frowns. It's coming from my jeans. I pull them over to me and take out my phone. There is a text from Freiman.

"John, tomorrow night. 8pm, we'll pick you up. GF, be prepared for some real fun this time." I suddenly feel cold.

**In don't know what's wrong with me but I felt bloody awful when I started this one too. I'd really appreciate some feedback on this because I think I'm finsing it hard to 'come down' off the high of those two big chapters. I basically wrote the sex to make myself feel better. Was it off kilter? Have I gone off track? Really guys am feeling mega insecure and I don't know why...**

**Thank goodness for The Baker St Irregulars! You guys have kept me going: PrincessNala(LOOKJOHNINTHESPREADERS!), Peachsilk (peachy you're an angel), Darmed, Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2 (pep talker!), Tanya Zsa Zsa ,Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin (PLEASE SEE ABOVE COMMENT FOR NALA!) and Jazzysatindoll (see you at the Tate then)! You're all sweethearts.**

**I want to dedicate this and future chapters to Darmed who just found out her cancer has made a sneak attack. Can I ask you all to wish her well as a fellow Sherlock/John lover? **

**Love my OHOB and my darling Reggie, Cxx**


	15. John Watson, Dangerman

I'm pretending to read SM101 but I'm just looking at the pictures. Sherlock is leaning against me and he _is _reading the book. He hmms and nods to himself occasionally and I try to work out which bit he's reading.

I'm not looking at the pictures because I'm dim, I'm just nervous and they're... distracting. It's 7pm and I know Freiman will be here soon. Lestrade was not happy about this turn of events.

"Let me get this straight... you're going to go to somewhere you don't fucking know with a man we know murders people?" he frowns, pretending to get the point now. "Oh right... I see, that's all right then. Great. Fine." He nods and then gives me a look which clearly indicates he thinks I've got serious mental issues. I wince.

"Look, I know. It's not ideal." Jesus, I even sound like Sherlock now. I glance sideways at Sherlock and he grins. "Can't you give me a wire or something?" I'm thinking of Sydney Doyle and the way we caught the Monopoly murderers. Lestrade shakes his head.

"These are wily men John. They've killed a member of the Secret Service, they'll rumble that easily." A small part of me goes very cold. Oh shit.

So here I am trying to concentrate on a picture of a man's genitals strapped in some kind of leather bondage device. It's not distracting enough and that's bloody worrying.

"John, I've asked Mycroft to help." Sherlock isn't looking at me but I know he's worried about me too. He hasn't suggested I text Freiman and back out and I wonder if he thinks I'll be offended if he did but I'm surprised he's asked Mycroft. I thought he'd rather die than ask his brother for anything.

He leans forward and gets something out of his trouser pocket. It's a small, clear box and in it is a tiny, flat black square. He shakes it out onto his hand.

"What's that?" he turns it over and I see some gold circuitry etched on the underside. It's beautiful in a sinister way.

"It's a GPS tracker alert. Brand new tech according to M," he smirks at his joke, he's remembered Bond. "It goes under your watch strap; you snap it to activate it." He passes it to me; it's so light I can't feel it in my hand. I go to snap it. He puts out his hand.

"No, if they've got any tracking technology they'll pick it up right away if you do it now. You have to wait until you're inside. Unless you need help." He grimaces, he doesn't like this but it's the only chance we have to stop Freiman and save his latest victims. I nod.

"I'll be okay." I reassure him, feeling less than certain myself. He screws his face up like he's in pain. Then he grabs my face, I nearly drop the chip in my palm. He presses his mouth to mine; it's a desperate, needy act. I feel his tongue playing over my lips, a familiar tremor of excitement runs through me despite my fear. We kiss for a few minutes, both of us breathless; it reminds me of the times before going out to fight. How people burn more brightly before they face death.

My phone beeps and we break apart. I get up, put on my jacket and slip the tiny black square under my watch strap. He kisses me again, I look at my phone. It's Freiman.

"Outside. Blue BMW." As I leave the flat I look back at Sherlock. He is sitting on the sofa, elbows on his knees, hands in his dark hair. I can't see his face.

It's Damien in the car. He nods to me and I get in the backseat.

"Evening." My voice sounds loud in the silence of the car. He starts the engine, glancing at me in the rear view mirror and we pull away.

We weave our way through London and I'm soon lost. If I had Sherlock's knowledge of the city it'd be fine. I vow that, if I ever get out of this alive, I'll make him tell me everything he knows about the streets.

After about three quarter of an hour's drive, during which Damien says nothing, he pulls the car into what appears to be an abandoned warehouse. It's so bloody stereotypically kidnapsville that I almost laugh. When he gets out of the car, taking a revolver from the passenger seat I think twice about my amusement. If I didn't realise what deep water I was in before, something about the way he holds that gun, his posture, makes it quite clear.

"Come on John, this way." He sounds relatively amiable until he points with the muzzle into the building, indicating for me to go first. I walk ahead and he switches lights on as we enter the building.

Bright fluorescent strips throw a cold, blue light over the concrete and breezeblock. For a chilling moment it reminds me of Laura's underground garage. I try not to think about the difference between this kidnap and the one we staged there.

I keep walking, working under the premise that he'll stop me when he wants to. We walk past grey metal doors, our footsteps muffled by the dimpled concrete under our feet. From a long way off I hear a scream. It might be female but then I know from experience that we all sound pretty similar when we're in pain. My stomach goes cold and I get that all too familiar cold, sick feeling which means adrenaline is flooding my system. Inside me some creature wakes up. I know him. But the last time I saw him was a long time ago in a place much warmer than this. I welcome his presence because it means that I have chance of getting out of this alive. Some part of John Watson shuts down, goes into hibernation, or hiding.

We are walking towards the screaming. I glance back at Damien who has a broad grin on his face. I twist my mouth into a smile and he pats me on the shoulder in an almost friendly way.

"All part of tonight's fun John." I nod and smile. As I turn I think, you're the first one I damage if I can't get out of this.

We enter a room. Freiman is there sitting behind a metal desk he glances up from something he is reading and smiles widely. I notice with a sick stomach that he's casually reading a newspaper.

"Hey John, good to see you again. We're just warming up." He jerks his head to a door behind him, there is another scream. My stomach clenches, my leg muscles tense and I try to breathe normally. "She's a screamer. Like a screamer John?" he chuckles. I force a grin.

"For a while, until it gets boring. Then you have to find something to do with their mouths." His smile is splitting his face now; he thinks he's found a kindred spirit. The screaming stops and there is sobbing.

"Are we sharing with any others?" I ask, hoping I sound disgruntled. He looks at me warily and then his face relaxes.

"Me, you, Damien and another acquaintance. It's hard to keep a secret in a crowd you know? I like to keep things intimate." He jerks his head again where there is a sound of skin on skin and more sobbing. In my pocket I clench my fist. There's nothing I can do yet. It's then I notice that there is someone else in the room.

He's about sixteen and his mouth and hands are taped up. His eyes are closed and he looks resigned to his fate. His shirt is torn and hanging by two buttons and the knees of his jeans are ripped open and I can see his legs, scarred and bloody. He is shaking. Freiman follows my eyes.

"We weren't sure what you preferred John." he chuckles. I nod.

"He'll do nicely," I menace. The boy moans and it's fear in his voice. I can't do anything to indicate to him that I won't hurt him and I hate myself for being part of this ordeal for him. Damien hits the boy viciously across the face with his gun hand. He props the boy up and hits him crunch of knuckle on bone reverberates around the sparse room. I feel myself slipping further and further from civilian mode.

Freiman stands up, folds up the newspaper he's been reading. It's like he's been on a park bench and his lunch break's over. 'They all deserve to die'. The voice inside my head whispers. I nod.

"Right, my turn I think. Want to watch?" I shake my head.

"I think I'll just listen and get warmed up myself." I grin, nodding to Damien. "You going too?"

"No, he's staying with you. It's your first time John, and we've not had a hundred percent success rate with our recruits recently." Damien leers, the gun still in his hand. I raise my eyebrows.

"Oh? I thought you vetted your 'recruits' thoroughly. Bloody hell, you even went to the Tate for me." I grin, letting him know I saw his man in the gallery. He laughs.

"You're a live one Watson, we thought that pretty boyfriend of yours had kept you occupied." I shake my head and chuckle.

"Once a soldier..." he laughs and claps me on the arm, like we're the best friends in the world. The creature inside me stretches, ready, waiting. I rein it in.

"Okay. I'll give you a shout when I'm done." He lumbers into the other room and closes the door. The voice behind the door is whimpering. I clench my jaw.

"I'm not really on for an audience you know?" I say to Damien who is regarding me with open hostility now his boss has gone. He shrugs like he doesn't care. I lift my cuff and look at my watch. Surely I've seen enough to alert Mycroft? I slip a finger under the strap and press down hard in the middle of the black square. Nothing happens but then I don't know if something is supposed to happen. I turn back to Damien.

"Any chance of a drink?" he frowns and shakes his head. The screaming behind the door begins in earnest again and he laughs. I bite my lip, hoping he mistakes the expression but the fact is I cannot stand here much longer and listen to what they're doing to that girl.

Minutes stretch by like hours, she begins to plead, her voice a long stretch of 'nononononono'. I can't tell by her voice where she's from but fear and pain and humiliation are a universal language. The beast inside me, kept quiet for too long, is whispering to me that I could easily get Damien's gun, easily stop that girl's pain, that Mycroft is not coming and I must act for myself.

I can't judge time anymore, I want to huddle in the corner, put my hands over my ears, drown out that awful noise but I can't. It's all too fucking real, too near the bone. I have heard my own voice screaming like that and I can't tell who is real anymore.

In the corner the boy's silent tears roll down his face. He has wet himself and the smell is overpowering and full of fear. The girl behind the door's cries break off and I hear a sickening noise and she is silent. Damien is grinning and I can see that he has a huge hard on.

I look at my watch and we've been in this room for an hour and half, listening to them torture that girl. I have to do something.

"Want to go in?" I ask, grinning," I can deal with this here." I nod towards the boy who is making a high pitched keening sound. I can see Damien is tempted.

"Go on, we'll be fine." I give him a cheeky wink. He smiles, nods and turns his back on me. Big mistake. I let the creature out. My hand is on his chin forcing his head back and cutting off his air supply. My other hand slams down on his wrist weakening his grip on the gun and then twisting it from his grasp. At the same time I stab my boot into the back of his kneecap and he crumples forward. The girl starts screaming and I shoot him in the head.

It's a reaction, just a reaction. Training and adrenaline and fear and survival. The boy's eyes start out over his silver taped mouth. I gesture fiercely for him to be quiet. He whimpers quietly. I stand back against the doorway, waiting for it to open. If it's Freiman and the other man then I'm dead, but if it's only one of them I have a chance.

The door open and it's a man I've not met. I smack him, hard, on the temple with the handle of the gun and he goes down. He's breathing but only just. I've seen a blow like that to the temple kill a man and I wasn't holding back. I pick up the gun and, aware that this is the last thing in the world I want to do, I step through the doorway.

I don't have the words to describe what Freiman is doing, has done, to the girl. Her hair is matted to her skull with blood, one eye already blackened and swollen shut. She is naked and I can see burns and welts on her body. Her arms are fastened above her head. Her one eye is wide with fear and pain. Freiman is naked from the waist down, he turns as I come into the room and there is a moment where I watch his face change from curiosity to fear as he sees the gun in my hand.

At the last moment, with the beast raging free and death and vengeance spinning about me, I realise who I still am. I'm john Watson, I'm a doctor. I shoot him in both kneecaps and he crumples to the floor, howling in pain.

Blindly I stagger to the girl, she flinches as I come near and I soothe her with my voice. I can't manage to make a sentence.

"Shhhhh." I whisper as I unclip the hook which has cut into her wrist and she falls forward. I carry her into the next room. I can still hear Freiman whining and I shut the door on him. I strip the tape from the boy's mouth and hands. He winces but he saw what I did to Damien, the other man, and he knows I won't hurt him. He points to the table and there's a drawer. In it is the rest of the roll of tape they used on him. I tape up the concussed man and I carry the girl out of the room, motioning for the boy to follow me.

We stagger together down the concrete corridors, then gun wedged in the back of my jeans and my every sense alive and alert. I feel sick but it's the sickness that comes after battle. A sickness you welcome because it means you're still fucking alive.

The air is getting colder and I know we're reaching the outside. A strip of white light splits the darkness from a set of wide double doors. We move towards it.

We emerge into the light. It is shining on us from spotlights, so bright they hurt my eyes. Red dots swarm over us and I realise they are snipers. I almost drop the girl, Freiman had back up. In the blinding light I realise I will never see Sherlock again. An overwhelming sorrow floods my body, washing the soldier out of me, washing the adrenaline, the fight or flight. I begin to cry. A voice is shrill in the distance.

"My god! John Watson what have you been doing?" I blink, I still can't see. A figure is walking towards me, their features obliterated by the harsh glare. As they approach their own silhouette becomes the shadow in which I can see their face. It's Mycroft.

I am choking, sobbing. Someone comes and pries my fingers from the girl's cold body and they put her on a stretcher. Two men in paramedic uniform escort the boy away.

"John? John?" Mycroft's voice is soft. I look up at him, I could kiss him but it's probably not a good idea.

"Freiman's in there... I... shot his kneecaps." Mycroft's eyebrows raise but he doesn't say anything. I realise I'd better tell him more. "And... there's a bloke. Damien. He's dead." Mycroft nods like he doesn't need me to explain anything so I don't. He takes my elbow and leads me to the back of an ambulance. A paramedic shines a light in my eye and gives me a cup of tea. It all feels faintly ridiculous, like a bad dream. One minute I'm killing a man and the next I have weak tea in Styrofoam cup. I almost laugh but the doctor in me knows that this is shock.

The last straw is when someone puts an orange blanket over me. I feel the hot tears well up in my eyes and splash down my chest, soaking into the waffle blanket. I welcome the body wracking sobs. They mean I'm still here.

I sit for what feels like hours, feeling my bum go numb on the cold metal ridge of the ambulance step. I try to rub out the picture of the girl, bloody and broken, of Freiman's obscene frame gloating over her. It's not going to be easy. I sigh, knowing I have just added to my library of nightmare material.

Blue and red lights are flashing across the wet concrete, illuminating the wire fences and the wet bushes which surround us. Dark sleek cars, no doubt Government Issue, pull away and more take their place. People hurry about and, in the distance; I see three stretchers being brought out of the building. One has a sheet completely covering it. I close my eyes and lean against the side on the ambulance.

I hear footsteps coming towards me and, presuming it's another paramedic, I don't open my eyes. They stop a few feet away and I hear ragged breathing, someone in pain. I've seen enough pain to last me a lifetime, I clench my eyes shut and will them to go away.

"John?" his voice is dark and filled with concern. I open my eyes and he's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen. Silhouetted by the light he seems so tall that it's like being a child again.

"Sherlock." My voice breaks and a new wash of tears come from nowhere. He hurries forward, bending on one knee to hold my hands and kiss my forehead. He puts his arms about me and holds me tightly as I sob against him.

"I...I... Damien..." he strokes my hair.

"I know John, Mycroft told me. You saved those children's lives." he pulls back and looks me in the eye.

He stands and pulls me to my feet. Together we walk across to where a car is waiting. The back door is open and he helps me inside. I am shivering and the driver passes Sherlock a thick blanket and he covers us both with it. I recognise the driver. Her hair is piled up on her head and, as she catches my eye in the rear view mirror, she smiles warmly.

"Dickinson?" I mumble. "Laura?" Sherlock puts his arm about me and pulls me into his shoulder.

"Laura lent me the car and Dickinson to come and collect you." he murmurs, kissing my temple. I let out a long breath, trying to expel all the tension from my body. As the car sets off and the low hum rumbles through my body I feel myself growing limp, tired. Amazed at my body's reaction to the tension I drift off to sleep, Sherlock wraps the blanket over our legs.

**Wow. The end of the case of the Rubber Ring! Don't worry I start their new adventure tomorrow! Please let me know how this chapter went because it was hard to write all that pain, torture and tension. I am wrung out and going to bed. It'd be nice to have a happy inbox from you guys tomorrow morning! **

**The Baker St Irregulars! You guys have seen me safely through a oneshot, monopoly murders, evil sex traffickers and now onto who know what and I love you for it!: PrincessNala(don't worry there's more and you know how it starts!), Peachsilk (honestly, you astonish me), Darmed (hope you liek your story!), Clubba Bear, Tasty- Kate, 2cajuman2, Tanya Zsa Zsa ,Munchiees!, Aelfric's cat, Nellyington, mrs winny, Despairandcupcakechild, Mouserjb4 ,Tillif and Harpyquin and Jazzysatindoll see you at the end of the next, first chapter!**

**I want to dedicate this and future chapters to Darmed who just found out her cancer has made a sneak attack. Can I ask you all to wish her well as a fellow Sherlock/John lover? **

**Love my OHOB and my darling Reggie, Cxx**


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